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.

2317 days ago, I woke up from a drug induced coma to the face of an unknown woman with crystal blue eyes, brassy yellow hair and gray roots. I don’t remember speaking to her. I don’t think I could. But I vividly remember the shock in her face when she looked down at me after she adjusted something over my head. She gasped and then exclaimed, “Oh thank goodness honey. We didn’t think you were going to make it.”