When I was a kid, I used to lie on my back and watch clouds, puffy and brilliant white, glide across the sky. They were constantly morphing, changing shapes: a dragon, a rabbit, a face. They were becoming something new over and over again. Even storm clouds, while gray and ominous, had their beauty, in that they promised rain the earth needed, and when they passed, the clear sky behind them seemed that much bluer and more beautiful.
That’s how I feel about having a mental health diagnosis, I’ve been living with bipolar disorder for over 20 years, and I almost let it destroy me. Like storm clouds, it can be ominous and scary, especially in the beginning when I had no idea what I was dealing with.