Thank you for your thoughts! They were so honest that I could only do them justice by replying in kind. This is the first time I've put on my writing cap in a while, so please be forgiving.
Firstly, I'd like to apologise for interrupting your holiday with a selfish question. You were in California admiring Chateau Marmont, and I was in my new flat unpacking, knee-deep in storage boxes, lazily scrolling through Instagram and admiring your photos.
In the days leading up to what would be another year of medical school, dread and fear and hate grew in the pit of my stomach (which thanks to anatomy, I now know is not a real place - but how real it feels!). I wrestled with myself until I had gotten myself into a proverbial headlock, forced myself to get on the plane, and forced myself to be where I am now. I knew that this was not normal behaviour, but I think I've let it fester for so long that it's become something like commensal bacteria. It feels like an uncomfortable, itchy blanket. It is constant.
The reason I asked you, is because I have suspected for some time that I hate medicine and because of this, hate myself. The problem was that I couldn't be sure. Does everyone else feel this pressure, of wanting to throw in the towel every other day (hour, minute)? Does everyone else feel this inadequate? Does everyone else feel this unhappy? Is this normal?
To the last question I don't have an answer. I've asked friends: about waking up constantly fatigued after sleeping for 12 hours straight, about the stabs of loathing and disgust I feel out of nowhere towards the profession and some people in it, about medicine forcing me to question not only my competency but my identity - without being too dramatic. This is apparently normal; medicine is a high-stress course and career. But this line of questioning is like trying to take a hike in someone else's shoes, in that you can't really. Because they're not your shoes. I can't know if I feel what they feel. So, I am gathering more evidence.
I, too, never developed a burning passion for science. I just have a curiosity about most things. Interestingly, the list of what I've wanted to be throughout my life is so like yours: writer, journalist, psychologist, zoologist, lawyer. (I'm serious!) But unlike yours, a medical career was also very much among my many professional aspirations. Here are the reasons for, as you aptly put, my diversion into medicine:
Firstly, I adore people. Because I can't find as neat a metaphor as I would like, what I feel towards people is between, say, what a laboratory scientist feels towards his rats, and what a visitor to an art gallery feel about the exhibits. Amazement. Admiration. Curiosity. Occasionally, disdain. (It happens.) I couldn't imagine working in any field where I have less of an opportunity to observe them in their natural habitat and out of their natural habitat, with all their vulnerabilities and imperfections that make them paradoxically perfect and beautiful, than I do now.
Secondly, as much as I enjoyed mentally and emotionally stimulating work as a pharmacist, practically, career prospects did not look good. It promised no job security, irregular hours and peanuts for pay. For how much I enjoyed what I did, I would've gladly stomached the peanuts. But I thought I'd need a Plan B. That was medicine. I never saw it as a career shift; rather, it was an opportunity to grow another arm and a leg, so that I could be more of an asset to the patients who meant so much to me. Like you, I felt that this was my duty. If I had the option to contribute more to society, why wouldn't I? And like you, gaining admission into medical school wasn't a problem. It wouldn't have made sense to stress over a Plan B. In the coming years, I would point to this as the reason for my apathy.
I remember the first day of medical school: orientation. The modern Hippocratic Oath, displayed on a screen, and a stethoscope ceremony served as our initiation into the profession. They told us how noble we were, and how noble what we were doing was. I didn't feel particularly noble.
I watched as my first- and second-year peers trailed after doctors, reverent and starry-eyed. I felt nothing (or slightly sick, at best). I listened as my third-year friend was allowed to assist in a complicated abdominal surgery. A month later, I held the protractor in another such surgery as she did, and in the 3 hours I stood there, pulling the abdominal muscles apart, I still felt nothing. I excised a melanoma from a leathery cheek and stitched up his now-bleeding face. I felt nothing, no sense of achievement or enthusiasm, while everyone around me found new things to celebrate every day. I pretended, and exhausted myself pretending, to feel the same way. I was unfulfilled. I felt stifled. I felt tired every day. I began to question my own humanity.
I felt confused. It made me doubt who I was, what I liked and what I was only pretending to like. I have always been introspective but for the first time, I didn't know myself. I felt further and further away from achieving my goals of working closely with people, who were beginning more and more to look like a collection of symptoms and laboratory results. I felt no comradery with my fellow medical students, and even less with my doctors. In my misery, I found more and more reasons to hate the people I worked with. I'd never felt so abhorrent towards the very people I'd professed to care for. I think I was just looking for a cause.
Then one night, after I'd kept my game face all day, it finally slipped off. Third year was coming to an end; it would've been early October. The school had organised an award ceremony for the clinical teachers, and we'd all had some wine. I had even offered to present the awards, and gone shopping for the prizes myself the day before. Alex drove me home and I was feeling off. I'd asked to him if he was up for a drive to the beach (it's about 15 minutes away), and we'd sat in the car, in the dark, listening to waves that I couldn't even see with the headlights off while I struggled with my feelings and how to articulate them. I couldn't get the words out, so we drove back. Some students had kicked on partying at the student accommodation and were gathered around the communal living area with bottles of spirits and a deck of cards, and I joined in, hoping to shake it off. But three or four drinks later found me sitting outside in the driveway, crying without knowing why. People had started going home. Alex ushered me out of the way of outbound cars, and onto a mattress where I sat, docile, for some time. Then I told him that I wanted to suicide. It came out choked; I was so ashamed, and when he dismissed it and me for having silly thoughts, I begged. Begged him to let me do it, begged until I fell asleep from exhaustion. Then I woke up the next morning and went back to work.
Nothing like that has happened since, but even so, summer holidays could not have come sooner. I threw the itchy blanket off. For months, I allowed myself to forget about it. I allowed myself to eat generously, grow fat, surround myself with family, be content. But as New Years' crept up and then passed me by, I couldn't stop thinking about unpacking that blanket, and now I'm wearing it again.
It's still all very unclear to me. I would be kidding myself if I didn't think medicine was going to be hard. And I wasn't, and medicine has been fraught with challenges as I'd expected, and I think I approached it realistically. But this awful feeling - is this to be expected? Or is this a sign that I've made a mistake?
I am sure you weren't expecting a response like this, and I would not be offended if you didn't read it - it's all over the place! I think, like you, this has forced me to self-analyse and be honest with myself. It has been therapeutic. So even if nothing changes, thank you for your help.
I'll update you with any progress, and here's hoping that you'll feel better soon.
Firstly, I'd like to apologise for interrupting your holiday with a selfish question. You were in California admiring Chateau Marmont, and I was in my new flat unpacking, knee-deep in storage boxes, lazily scrolling through Instagram and admiring your photos.
In the days leading up to what would be another year of medical school, dread and fear and hate grew in the pit of my stomach (which thanks to anatomy, I now know is not a real place - but how real it feels!). I wrestled with myself until I had gotten myself into a proverbial headlock, forced myself to get on the plane, and forced myself to be where I am now. I knew that this was not normal behaviour, but I think I've let it fester for so long that it's become something like commensal bacteria. It feels like an uncomfortable, itchy blanket. It is constant.
The reason I asked you, is because I have suspected for some time that I hate medicine and because of this, hate myself. The problem was that I couldn't be sure. Does everyone else feel this pressure, of wanting to throw in the towel every other day (hour, minute)? Does everyone else feel this inadequate? Does everyone else feel this unhappy? Is this normal?
To the last question I don't have an answer. I've asked friends: about waking up constantly fatigued after sleeping for 12 hours straight, about the stabs of loathing and disgust I feel out of nowhere towards the profession and some people in it, about medicine forcing me to question not only my competency but my identity - without being too dramatic. This is apparently normal; medicine is a high-stress course and career. But this line of questioning is like trying to take a hike in someone else's shoes, in that you can't really. Because they're not your shoes. I can't know if I feel what they feel. So, I am gathering more evidence.
I, too, never developed a burning passion for science. I just have a curiosity about most things. Interestingly, the list of what I've wanted to be throughout my life is so like yours: writer, journalist, psychologist, zoologist, lawyer. (I'm serious!) But unlike yours, a medical career was also very much among my many professional aspirations. Here are the reasons for, as you aptly put, my diversion into medicine:
Firstly, I adore people. Because I can't find as neat a metaphor as I would like, what I feel towards people is between, say, what a laboratory scientist feels towards his rats, and what a visitor to an art gallery feel about the exhibits. Amazement. Admiration. Curiosity. Occasionally, disdain. (It happens.) I couldn't imagine working in any field where I have less of an opportunity to observe them in their natural habitat and out of their natural habitat, with all their vulnerabilities and imperfections that make them paradoxically perfect and beautiful, than I do now.
Secondly, as much as I enjoyed mentally and emotionally stimulating work as a pharmacist, practically, career prospects did not look good. It promised no job security, irregular hours and peanuts for pay. For how much I enjoyed what I did, I would've gladly stomached the peanuts. But I thought I'd need a Plan B. That was medicine. I never saw it as a career shift; rather, it was an opportunity to grow another arm and a leg, so that I could be more of an asset to the patients who meant so much to me. Like you, I felt that this was my duty. If I had the option to contribute more to society, why wouldn't I? And like you, gaining admission into medical school wasn't a problem. It wouldn't have made sense to stress over a Plan B. In the coming years, I would point to this as the reason for my apathy.
I remember the first day of medical school: orientation. The modern Hippocratic Oath, displayed on a screen, and a stethoscope ceremony served as our initiation into the profession. They told us how noble we were, and how noble what we were doing was. I didn't feel particularly noble.
I watched as my first- and second-year peers trailed after doctors, reverent and starry-eyed. I felt nothing (or slightly sick, at best). I listened as my third-year friend was allowed to assist in a complicated abdominal surgery. A month later, I held the protractor in another such surgery as she did, and in the 3 hours I stood there, pulling the abdominal muscles apart, I still felt nothing. I excised a melanoma from a leathery cheek and stitched up his now-bleeding face. I felt nothing, no sense of achievement or enthusiasm, while everyone around me found new things to celebrate every day. I pretended, and exhausted myself pretending, to feel the same way. I was unfulfilled. I felt stifled. I felt tired every day. I began to question my own humanity.
I felt confused. It made me doubt who I was, what I liked and what I was only pretending to like. I have always been introspective but for the first time, I didn't know myself. I felt further and further away from achieving my goals of working closely with people, who were beginning more and more to look like a collection of symptoms and laboratory results. I felt no comradery with my fellow medical students, and even less with my doctors. In my misery, I found more and more reasons to hate the people I worked with. I'd never felt so abhorrent towards the very people I'd professed to care for. I think I was just looking for a cause.
Then one night, after I'd kept my game face all day, it finally slipped off. Third year was coming to an end; it would've been early October. The school had organised an award ceremony for the clinical teachers, and we'd all had some wine. I had even offered to present the awards, and gone shopping for the prizes myself the day before. Alex drove me home and I was feeling off. I'd asked to him if he was up for a drive to the beach (it's about 15 minutes away), and we'd sat in the car, in the dark, listening to waves that I couldn't even see with the headlights off while I struggled with my feelings and how to articulate them. I couldn't get the words out, so we drove back. Some students had kicked on partying at the student accommodation and were gathered around the communal living area with bottles of spirits and a deck of cards, and I joined in, hoping to shake it off. But three or four drinks later found me sitting outside in the driveway, crying without knowing why. People had started going home. Alex ushered me out of the way of outbound cars, and onto a mattress where I sat, docile, for some time. Then I told him that I wanted to suicide. It came out choked; I was so ashamed, and when he dismissed it and me for having silly thoughts, I begged. Begged him to let me do it, begged until I fell asleep from exhaustion. Then I woke up the next morning and went back to work.
Nothing like that has happened since, but even so, summer holidays could not have come sooner. I threw the itchy blanket off. For months, I allowed myself to forget about it. I allowed myself to eat generously, grow fat, surround myself with family, be content. But as New Years' crept up and then passed me by, I couldn't stop thinking about unpacking that blanket, and now I'm wearing it again.
It's still all very unclear to me. I would be kidding myself if I didn't think medicine was going to be hard. And I wasn't, and medicine has been fraught with challenges as I'd expected, and I think I approached it realistically. But this awful feeling - is this to be expected? Or is this a sign that I've made a mistake?
I am sure you weren't expecting a response like this, and I would not be offended if you didn't read it - it's all over the place! I think, like you, this has forced me to self-analyse and be honest with myself. It has been therapeutic. So even if nothing changes, thank you for your help.
I'll update you with any progress, and here's hoping that you'll feel better soon.