Accepting the diagnosis of mental illness can seem impossible. It hurts. It can shatter the sense of self you have acquired throughout your life. Pre-diagnosis, you might have felt that your personality was acquired, hard fought. You don't want to be anyone but you. Accepting you have a mental illness is initially terrifying.

I hesitated to use the word war in the title. I considered using the word struggle. But war is defined by combat: You are at war with your mental illness. Sometimes, every day. Struggle means many things, but war feels appropriate. You can win a war, perhaps struggle along the way, but land on your feet nonetheless.

Being a mental health patient requires patience. Eternal, frustrating patience. When you have a mental illness a few weeks feels like a few years. A decade. A mental health patient's degree of patience is the difference between suffering and relief. Living in patience peacefully is the key to mental health recovery.

Recovering from a serious mental illness can seem impossible, insurmountable at times, and frightening as well.  Because I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at the age of twelve, drugs and alcohol became a way in which I worked to forget about the diagnosis and self-medicate it.

When I was first diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, despite my young age, I was told that I would need to take medication. Probably for the rest of my life. I wondered, as many people do, if medication would change me. Sure, I was told it would make me well and make my life easier, but I was not sure what that really meant. Would I still be me?

In late September, the clouds replace the sunshine and summer becomes fall. The dates differ depending on where you live, but the impact on those who struggle with seasonal affective disorder (SAD), aka seasonal depression, are often felt before the date determines it.

I was watching TV last night, absentmindedly flipping through the stations, when I settled on an advertisement for Seroquel. The woman in the commercial is flying a kite. She is laughing without abandon. The sun shines just for her and a border collie stands beside her; he smiles with his eyes and wagging tail. In sum: she looks like she just won the lottery. And maybe she has: it seems that Seroquel has made her well. She can fly kites now. Bravo.

When I walk into my psychiatrist’s office, I often feel like I am wearing a shirt stating: people with a serious mental illness will require medication for the rest of their lives. It is a tough pill to swallow−pardon the pun−but something I think about often.