can someone tell me if this is bad or not //college essay // im nervous

An unforgiving draft had seeped its way underneath my covers, and after failing to adjust to the winter air, I slowly opened my eyes. Millions of dust particles danced in what streams of sunlight had slipped past my curtains, and I watched listlessly as they collected on the stacks of unfinished paintings and battered sketchbooks which had littered my floor. Scattered across the room were several paint-smudged Mason jars, the morning light filtering through their stained glass and creating kaleidoscopic images on the wall behind. Though long stale, some were still filled with water from a manic painting frenzy months earlier. I could barely smell the earthy faintness of drying oil paint, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I considered the uncertainty of my greatest passion ever returning. Rolling over, I shut my eyes before they could begin to sting.

I struggled with balance for many years, and even though this affected all areas of my life, moments like this had upset me the most. For a long time it was impossible for me to accept that I was hurting, and I felt as if I could never escape the shadow of the stigma behind my condition. I was caught in a vicious cycle of denial and concealment, but I could never fool my art. During fits of grandiosity I would produce a half-dozen paintings in a single night, and then in the following morning be too embarrassed of myself to look at them. Art used to be my escape, but it slowly became just a painful reminder of reality.

Thinking it was out of my volition, I started to resent myself for abandoning my passion to create. For months, the dust that collected on these unfinished pieces was left undisturbed, and I began to hate the art itself. However, it wasn’t until I began to really struggle with wrestling my condition that I realized something: my art had tried to save me that entire time. I was so focused on denying myself validation that I failed to see that the incomplete projects strewn across my floor were never teasing me about my condition, instead they were desperately screaming that my pain was real. No longer suffocating myself in self-denial, I began to finally listen to what my art had tried to tell me. I refused to let my pain control how I created, and I embarked on my journey towards a more balanced future.

I fought on this path for many years, constantly trying new ways to manage my cycles. After seeking professional help, I also experimented with different coping skills and daily routines. However, the most powerful influence on my recovery has been internal. It was when I learned to accept my condition as a piece of myself, and not as my enemy, that I stopped having to wrestle for control over my emotions. During my junior year, I began to truly listen to myself. By responding with love and validation, my pain no longer had to disrupt my life to be heard, and I was able to regain stability in my life.

Even as my academic and social lives began to flourish, it had still been months since I had touched my art. I had been too afraid to try, until one summer afternoon had flooded my room with sunlight. I lazily followed a ray of light across my room, where I noticed it landed on a stack of forgotten art. As I began to near the paintings, my anxiety turned into calm. Inspecting the one on the top, I grazed the canvas and was suddenly filled with passionate electricity. I found a stray paintbrush, and without even thinking I began to paint. My eyes stung, but because I was happy. My art had finally returned to me, and for the first time in years, I felt complete.

please

I need people to look at one of my college application essays can u pls message me if you have time to…nothing labor intensive I just want to know if it sounds stupid pls. its only 250 words