The Psych Stay Collection was born in a psychiatric hospital, when almost everything had been taken away and making art was one of the few ways I could still feel like myself. Not exactly the dream studio setup, but apparently my nervous system had a lot to say.

Skeleton Psychosis came out of the tiny bendy safety pen I was allowed to use under supervision. The bright skeletons are about finding one small good thing inside a truly awful moment.

Sweet But Psycho is eleven girls with halos, horns, sweetness, sharp edges, and absolutely no interest in becoming easier to explain.

Secret Patient Pencil is seven graphite girls drawn with the contraband pencil I found hidden by my bed, then safely left in the same spot for whoever stayed in room *** after me.

I was in a psychiatric hospital, surrounded by psychosis, in a place where everyone's skeletons were outside their closets for everyone to see. There were no phones, no internet, and one wall phone shared by every patient. Every conversation was monitored. For the first time in a long time, I had nothing to keep me busy or distract myself from the pain, the physical pain and the mental pain I suffer from every second of every day.

I asked my husband when he came to visit if he could bring me some of my art supplies, because I wasn't allowed to have any electronics inside. They let me have art markers, paper, and a pen, but only if I used them outside my room, monitored. That was hard because I usually lay down to make art; I have chronic back pain. But having those supplies back in my hands made me happy. So I sat outside my room, with that tiny bendable pen, and started drawing.

It is extremely difficult to write with, let alone create art, so small, so bendy. But it made me so much more grateful for all the little things I easily took for granted outside of that place. I was able to find happiness there anyway, and that was what was in my mind and body, so that is what came out on paper. The colorful Skeleton Psychosis collection was born, one piece after another.

These prints are meant to be collected and displayed as a gentle reminder to find the good in the bad moments, and to be grateful for the little things in life we usually take for granted.

Pencils are considered contraband in a psychiatric hospital. But on the first day I arrived, I found the Secret Patient Pencil wedged between my mattress and the bed frame. It fell out onto the floor when I pulled the sheet back to get into bed. It was most likely hidden and used by the patient who stayed in my room before me.

I like to think they left it there for me. Maybe the patient before them left it for them, too. I made the decision to carry on that secret tradition in room ***, hoping the next patient whose room that becomes may find the Secret Patient Pencil hidden in the same spot, left behind for them to hopefully use in a safe way to help them through their stay, like it helped me during mine.

That is why the collection of seven graphite girls is named the Secret Patient Pencil Collection. It is quiet. It is private. It is passed from one hurting person to another as a tiny act of survival and care.

In the psych ward you aren't allowed real pens or pencils, nothing rigid, nothing sharp, nothing anyone could use to hurt themselves or someone else. What they hand you instead is about two inches long and made of soft, flexible plastic. It bends while you're drawing with it.

So when you look closely at these pieces, know that every line came out of that little bending pen, in a place where almost everything else had been taken away. It made the work harder, and it made the work honest.