When I was in the murky depths of depression, I used to love it when it rained. The more gray, gloomy and miserable the weather, the better. My then-partner was always puzzled by this meteorological preference. “Who prefers bad weather?” he asked, “Why on earth do you like it so much?”
The answer came swiftly, taking me by surprise with its simplicity and bone-aching truth: “Because it’s the only time my outsides match my insides.”
Because it’s the only time my outsides match my insides.
In the middle of that five-year journey through my own private hell, crappy weather provided a sense of relief. When it was gloomy outside — as it always was within — it was such a relief. I didn’t have to pretend. I could finally exhale. It was such a blessed, welcome reprieve to feel aligned for a day or two while the heavens opened up… even if that alignment was not in the happy, shiny direction that most people prefer their inner compasses to point.