Medic: The end of my career

I am a medical student with a history of mental health issues which began when I was a child. I have always been truthful with my mental health problems with my medical school, believing that through being transparent, they would be able to support me fully. Last year I was sectioned under the Mental Health Act (I was forced to go into a psychiatric hospital against my will), and once I was discharged, I stupidly informed my medical school.

Since I informed them, I feel like I am being punished. Everything was automatically shut down; I was told that I was not allowed to return to class or attend any clinical placements until my doctor had written to the school telling them I was well. I was told I would be kicked off the course if I tried to attend any classes. Once I was finally allowed to return to my course, I thought – things can go back to normal! I made plans to carry out some research projects over the holidays, to do some extra placements of my own with doctors I liked – I saw myself as an eager student willing to put myself out there. I then received an email a few weeks ago telling me that I was not allowed to do all these extra things – the school felt that I was too ‘vulnerable’ and therefore it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to carry out any projects over the holidays or attend extra placements. I was told that anything extra I decided to do during the holidays that was clinical in any way had to go through the school. I felt like I was on lockdown. Nevermind the fact that my doctor said I was well, that I was no longer ill. From the school’s point of view, I was someone who had been under a section, and was therefore a danger – either to patients or to myself. I had no way to appeal against this decision, and felt trapped – I couldn’t make any plans over the summer in the things that interested me, because they would be blocked by my school. I had essentially ruined my career. This section would dog the rest of my career – once I graduated and started working in a hospital, the medical school had a duty to inform my boss about my past history of being sectioned.

The way people treat me is different. The weird looks I get from staff, the glance around the shoulder, the hushed whisper that suggests I might attack at any minute. And no, this is not just me being oversensitive. A couple of people have asked me why the staff treat me so differently.

I genuinely believe I am a good person. I believe I will make a good doctor. I enjoy speaking to patients, I enjoy learning about their lives. I want to help people suffering through mental health issues, hold their hand and guide them through the darkness they feel will surround them forever. I want to learn new things, gain new knowledge. I want to be a doctor.

But I feel that all of this has been ruined. My entire career is up in flames. Why? Because I was sectioned. Because I was stupid enough to inform my medical school. Anything I want to do has to go through them first – and guess what? I’m too vulnerable to do anything I suggest.

I have no family. I have no friends. I put all of my hopes into my career. I had dreams of being a doctor who garnered respect, who became friends with their patients. And that has all gone to waste. I have nothing left. I have destroyed everything that I had – the only thing that I had.

Killing myself seems to be the only option. No, I’m not mentally ill. I was in a psychiatric hospital, and was later told by the doctor that I was not ill. And that’s the frustrating thing – I am not ill, and yet I am being treated as a prisoner. A few days in a psychiatric hospital, and my entire world has changed. I see barriers everywhere I go.

I am not mentally ill. I have had troubles with relationships, with my emotions. I have never had a friend. I have felt lonely for most of my life. I go to coffee shops everyday so that someone will ask me how my day was. I sit on buses as they go round and round in circles, just so I have the warmth of a human beside me. I sit in parks and watch humanity pass by, pretending that these people are my friends, that they will invite me round to tea, that I will be loved. I make movies in my head, of conversations I have with imaginary friends, friends who enjoy my company. In my mind I am loved, someone whose company everyone enjoys. But this is not the reality. Is this down to mental illness? No. My doctor(s) have made that very clear. This is something internal. I am not made for friends. I am not made for love. I do not mean this in a self-pitying way. It took me a while to understand, why I found it so difficult to make any friends. I could put on a happy face, crack a few jokes, put other people at the centre of attention. And yet, I always seemed to fade into the background. Nay, you see, I am not human. I am more of a mutant. I am not worthy of friendship. I deserve to be alone, for I am not worthy of anyone else’s company. I don’t know what it is about me, but I seem to revolt people. Am I being oversensitive again? My experience tells me not.

It’s funny. As a medical student, I help people everyday. Not only do I inject drugs or carry out tests. I speak to people. I speak to them about their fears, their worries and their hopes. I give them a hand to hold as they go through the most horrific moments of their life. As their life shatters all around them, I make sure I am there to give them a hug. To let them know everything will be okay.

But what about me? Do I not deserve love? Do I not deserve companionship? I guess not. I had always tried to take the high road, telling myself that I did not need friendship to survive. I could rely on my career, becoming a great doctor – a saviour. And yet, I have managed to destroy even that. What is left for me? Only the earth below.

Believe me, I have tried. People talk of cowardice when the word suicide comes up. I have tried. I have tried to fit in with society. I have tried to follow all the rules. I have tried to be transparent about my problems – I have seen counsellors and psychiatrists, doctors and social workers. But there is no medical problem to fix. The problem is internal. I do not deserve life. I have tried my best, but everything has been taken from me. I truly believe I am a good person. I care so much about people. It hurts when I see people in agony in the hospital. When a mother loses her child, a father gets diagnosed with cancer. Life can be so unfair. And yet, it is incredible how tough human beings can be. How they can hold onto each other and get their feet back on the ground. You can get through anything if you have the right people around you. If only I did.

But that’s fine. I’ve accepted that now. This has gone on long enough. I have tried and tried and tried. The end of my career is the end of me. Please do not see me as a coward. Believe me, I tried. I just wanted to be loved. Someone to ask me how my day was. To give me a pat on the shoulder through the rough and heavy. To pull me back up when I tripped and faltered. I just wanted someone to care. Someone who could see my despair and loss. Heck, someone who would say hello to me – acknowledge my existence.

It has all slowly crumbled away from me. Relationships, self-esteem, self-worth. And now, my career. What am I, but skin and bone sewn together? I have no future. I have no family. I have no friends. Am I even human? Do I deserve to be loved?

Please do not think too harshly of me. Believe me, I tried.