Sitting in the doctor’s office, I waited for the diagnosis. I learned something about perception that day: When some people think of a diagnosis, they think of cancer. Their diagnosis is sending flowers after every round of chemotherapy hoping maybe it’ll work. When I think of diagnosis, I think of my own.  My diagnosis is seeing my doctor and exchanging BS so I can get my prescription filled. My diagnosis is having to explain to my new employer why I have had so many jobs because my mind can’t stand everyday monotony. My diagnosis is living in my own personal hell. My diagnosis is bipolar disorder.  Bipolar disorder is described as “a disorder with episodes of mood swings ranging from depressive lows to manic highs”. For me, manic episodes look like excessive spending, and reckless behavior, and ruining friendships just for the fun of it. And depressive episodes look like spending days in bed with the lights off, and crying until I can’t breathe, and not even showering for more than a week. My whole life I have always been a good student so that was enough to make my parents proud. When I turned 13, it was almost like a switch had flipped in me. I was happy to finally put myself out there, but I got in with the wrong crowd. I was associating with unfamiliar people and getting high. I had substance issues before I was even 14. My family was broken, and they spent countless nights wondering where I was. This is when my depressive episodes started showing more outwardly. My drug abuse had stemmed from my mania that I did not know I had. My life had slipped away from me, and I was in a deep manic episode for months.  Bipolar disorder feels like you’re climbing a mountain with rocky ground that cuts into your feet. The wind chills your bones as you struggle against the weight of the loosely tied hospital gown. Your legs are aching as you feel like Sisyphus and his stupid boulder was with nothing compared to your trudge. One step feels like 20 miles. You are alone on the mountain.  No cheering for you when you’re at the top.  No one congratulating you.  Nothing.  Just the sound of the wind rustling through your ears and your hair hitting your face as you’re trying to shield yourself with the gown. Standing still on the mountain makes you feel detached from your physical self, seeing your breath nearly gets you high, making you feel weightless. You don’t get to embrace the euphoric high for long. The mania causes the mountain to crumble. A sense of overwhelming panic fills your body while the ground shifts. There is a sense of helplessness and vulnerability as the mountain collapses beneath you.  What you want every time you go up the mountain is to see a cabin with your mom baking cookies waiting for you. A break to lull your mental torment. But it’s never there. The trudge up that mountain has been my ever-present reality for 5 years. The endless cycles of mania and depression have tested my courage and driven me to the end of my rope. But through the darkness, I have found a glimmer of hope and the courage to seek help and commit to my recovery. I am completely sober now and reminded of what brought me to this point. While my past may be full of reckless behavior and substance abuse, I refuse to let my diagnosis define me. I am not just another bipolar statistic; I am a beacon of hope for those struggling themselves. I am a fire ablaze on a snowy mountaintop. Each day of sobriety is a testament to my strength and resilience and each day is one step closer to reclaiming my life and embracing the person I am meant to be.