When we hear the words mental illness, an image usually arrives before thought. It happens quickly, almost involuntarily: a figure in a hospital corridor, a television character speaking to no one in particular, a headline that links instability with danger and offers fear as an explanation.

So yes, the room is dark. And I don’t like the dark. It makes everything worse. It makes my thoughts louder. My chest tighter. I don’t trust the dark. It’s where the sad things grow. And I guess that’s what this is. Sadness. Or sickness. Or both. I don’t know anymore.