My struggle began around nine months before my eventual diagnosis. This was on a background of an entire lifetime governed by this haunting feeling that something was different. Or that something was not right. Yet being the overachiever that I was, no one noticed. I was always left to question whether my reactions were just a disproportionate reaction to certain life events. And I was repeatedly told the same thing.
I have always toyed with the idea that I may have depression. Numerous times I have looked over the various depression diagnoses and their criteria. But then I settle on the idea that my thoughts and emotions and struggle are not severe enough. Everyone experiences sadness. Everyone experiences grief.
It is a cold February night, the car barely warming by the time I park. Walking towards the doors of the emergency department, I suspend my social media accounts and shut down my phone. In a few hours, it will be my birthday — I want this one to pass without attention.
Administrative assistant, nurse and high school volunteer were just a few of the titles people assumed I was when they saw me sitting in the office of the Department of Orthopaedic Surgery. Often to their surprise, I was a medical student starting my summer research project between my first and second year. It became immediately clear that seeing a young woman associated with orthopedic surgery was not something many people were used to.
Monday mornings of my first semester of med school I’d reach into the smaller pocket of my backpack, grabbing around until I heard that pill-rattle sound. Over time, it’d come to rival my coffee machine in its Pavlovian salivation production.