It’s as if I’m in the wrong body

After the initial novelty of my non-medical career subsides, and I slip back into every day life, I’m almost surprised how quickly this new situation has become ‘normal’.

Was it really just six months ago that I was trying to decide whether to quit Medicine? Did I seriously stay up all night agonising over my wasted education, questioning my life decisions and wondering how I could live outside of my career?

As unpleasant as all the drama was, life now feel strangely drab without it. My mum and I are now taking advantage of my new-found freedom. She’s been filling my weekends with fun wedding planning, and booking me in to sing at various concerts, which I’m really enjoying. I think she’s actually glad I’m able to do such things now, and it’s nice to spend more quality time with her.

My dad, who I think was deeply affected and disappointed when Medicine didn’t work out for me, and whom I could hardly face for the shame of it, seems to have recovered somewhat too. He grabbed me when I visited last weekend to help him set up a website. He and my mother are renovating a property in Sri Lanka and turning it into a little boutique hotel, which will be aimed mainly at tourists travelling around the Hill Country. Since online business is ‘my thing’ now, it’s nice to know I can use my new skills to help them. I’m also relieved that my relationship with him hasn’t suffered – he still talks to me about his interesting cases, discusses the latest radiological developments with me, and shows me interesting pathologies on MRI or CT scans that he’s reported. I feel like, through him, I still belong to the medical world in some small way.

This is the first time I’ve come close to missing Medicine, but at the same time, I know that I’m not missing it for the right reasons. I don’t yet feel that it’s calling me back – I just miss the familiarity of that part of my identity. It sounds awful, but before, my stressful state of being made sense to me; being a doctor is inherently stressful, and now, although I’ve left the profession, that mindset persists. In fact, I’ve been so highly programmed to cope with pressure that I’m inventing stressors for myself, mostly unintentionally, but partly in a vain attempt to replicate what I have left. I just can’t stop feeling ‘on edge’. The anxiety follows me around like a shadow, and I have to consciously remind myself that no one is going to die. It’s worrying that the NHS makes doctors feel this way – it’s not healthy.

Last night I rang one of my best friends, who is a high school teacher, and lamented a trait that she and I both seem to share: we crave the ‘buzz’. An addiction that started in our school days, the need for achievement has become central to our lives, yet it is horribly unsatisfying. It’s like a hit of heroin – reaching that top grade or winning that prize gives us a fleeting hint of pleasure and pride, but it doesn’t last. In mere moments, the achievement is thrown into the pile of our success and we move on to seek the next high. Combine this trait with a high-pressured, under-resourced job and it’s a recipe for disaster.

Now the buzz is gone. No more cardiac arrests, no more emergency surgeries, no more on-the-spot decisions to be made. I’m not Dr Peach any more, I’m just Peach who’s a marketing manager. I can’t even play the ‘rebel’ card any more, as my family seem to have accepted the change and adapted to it. I feel a selfish longing to be important again, to be valuable, even though as a doctor, I felt anything but important or valued. It’s all so paradoxical, I’m confusing myself. After all, most psychiatrists or dermatologists don’t deal with medical emergencies any more than I do – if I had become one of them, would I still miss the buzz, or would it be enough that I was helping people and changing lives? Who knows. I’m starting to think that, with my current way of looking at things, nothing would ever be enough for me.

I suppose I must learn to be content with life as it is, and to appreciate the wins more. I have now managed to cut my to-do list down to just four things: job, blog, novel and wedding. And if I think about it, life is still exciting. The adrenaline rushes may be considerably reduced in number, but there are plenty of interesting and wonderful things going on, even if they are happening gradually, over weeks and months instead of minutes and hours. I need to change my approach, and since the NHS environment isn’t really conducive to this kind of personal development, perhaps I needed to step out of it in order to grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trouble in Paradise: the Type A personality effect

I feel very rested. I’ve just come back from a wonderful skiing holiday in the French Alps, and aside from the terror of voluntarily throwing myself down a frozen mountain, it was a chance for me to relax and reset.

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I did a bit of soul searching while I was away. There’s something about fresh air, white snow and beautiful views that opens your mind to a new perspective, and I’ve been pondering over the fact that I’ve become increasingly stressed over the last few weeks. To make things worse, I’ve been increasing my stress by getting annoyed with myself for being stressed – which is very counterproductive. I was getting snappy with my closest friends and family, and I felt like I was tearing my hair out most of the time. It’s a vicious circle that I find myself in more often than I like – I feel that I should be able to handle everything, and that struggling is a sign of weakness. Now even more than ever, I feel I should be able to handle everything. After all, I’ve just left one of the most intense professions there is, so everything that follows it should be a breeze, right? Right…?

Apparently it’s not that simple. While we were away, conversations with my fiancé and new skiing crew gave me a reality check: I’ve just left my career under distressing circumstances and started working at Dr Morton’s in an industry that is completely new to me without any training. I’m trying to finish this novel that means so much to me, while also trying to work with my brilliant mentor Gyles to help other doctors who are struggling with Medicine. If this wasn’t enough, I’m doing an online course in marketing which demands at least 7 hours a week, and to top it all, I’m trying to plan my wedding. To say I’ve bitten off more than I can chew would be an understatement.

When I left Medicine, people shook their heads and told me that finding a less stressful job elsewhere would be impossible, because every job is stressful in its own way. I never believed that, because to me, the stress that came with Medicine seemed to be on a different level. There aren’t many jobs in which taking your eye off the ball for just a moment could actually kill another human being. I really don’t know how Air Traffic Controllers do it.

But I have to admit that, in a way, it is true. Every job is stressful, but the crucial part of this concept is that every job is stressful for me. Somehow my attitude towards my old job has seeped into my new life. I continue to set high expectations for myself and am constantly seeking approval. I allow myself to feel overwhelmed by the workload, even when my colleagues are telling me I’m doing fine. It’s left me questioning where this outlook on life came from, and how to change it.

Wikipedia defines Types A personalities thus: “ambitious, rigidly organized, highly status-conscious, sensitive, impatient, take on more than they can handle, want other people to get to the point, anxious, proactive, and concerned with time management… high-achieving “workaholics”, push themselves with deadlines, and hate both delays and ambivalence.” Reading this definition made me feel a bit depressed because it pretty much describes me to the letter.

It makes me think back to being an A-level student. All of my peers who got into medical school were, to some degree or another, ‘high-achieving workaholics’. It was inevitable – medical school places are hard to come by. Bristol told us they offered just 250 places per year for 30 000 applicants. To be chosen you had to fight hard. You had to be obsessively hard-working to get the grades and work experience necessary, organised enough to have several different hobbies and ambitious enough to be good at all of them.

I’ve read that who you are and how you think depend very much on the people you surround yourself with. You direct circle of peers unconsciously set your boundaries, so personal, professional and financial success tend to be an average of those who have the greatest influence over you. In medicine, this can be a good thing, because it can mean that standards are held high, but I think it can be fundamentally damaging as well. As doctors I can’t help feeling that we tend to drown a little in our shared intensity, with over-ambition in one feeding the overwhelm of another.

I remember sitting our fourth year exams at Bristol. It was an intense year because it was the year we studied all the sub-specialities. I recall the sheer panic I used to feel, gazing at the huge pile of books before me and wondering where the hell to start. A helpful revision tip from one of our professors was simply to ‘learn everything’.

So there we sat trying to cram the enormity of medicine into our addled brains. What was odd, however, was that it was an incredibly lonely experience. My dad had told me stories of how he as a medical student in Newcastle used to have study groups with his friends and how they used to help each other out. I had assumed that I too would experience this nurturing, communal atmosphere, but the reality was a bit of a shock to me. It felt more like a competition, to be honest. The medical school made it worse by making some of the exam pass marks variable – the grade boundaries were set depending on the standard that year. This was an incredibly unkind thing to do, because it set the students directly against each other. You’d always be hoping that someone else got a lower grade than you so you could have a greater chance of passing.

The only way to be certain you were studying the right things was to do past papers. Everyone gets used to this practice at school because teachers do their level best to get hold of paper for you – however at medical school, past questions were a closely guarded secret, mainly because the board of examiners couldn’t be bothered to go through the rigmarole of writing different questions each year.

There were rumours on several occasions that past exam questions were circulating around some of the students, but no one ever spoke of them directly. If you had them, why would you share them? There was no incentive for student collaboration, and every reason to be secretive. People would lie about how hard they were working, or pretend that they’d ‘done no revision at all’ when you knew they had spent the last week burning the midnight oil face down in a copy of Kumar and Clark.

Not all doctors are the same, of course. I had a Greek SHO colleague in my orthopaedic job called Georgios. He was an incredible person to work with, because nothing ever seemed to frazzle him. No matter how many patients came through the door, or how full the theatre list was, or even how useless the system seemed, he still found time to discuss Greek philosophy with me over a hot drink. His motto, which I still repeat often in my head, was:

“Relax. Have a coffee.”

The Greek accent made it sound all the better!

The stress I feel now is definitely of a different kind. I do want to perform and be successful, but I know that there’s little chance of me doing anything truly catastrophic in my new job. It’s funny because, if I hadn’t been a doctor first, I might have had a very different view of things. I could see how, in a parallel universe, someone as highly strung as I am could easily crumble in the start-up environment. It’s demanding and uncertain, and because I like my bosses, I really want this to work for them. There’s a lot riding on a new business – reputation, money, relationships and sanity – and for the many that fail, it’s a terrible blow.

But having been a doctor, the silver lining is right before me – I just have to remind myself it’s there. The fact is, no one’s going to die if I make a mistake. No family’s life will be destroyed if I have a bad day. I won’t be hauled up in front of the GMC or struck off if I’m too tired to do the job properly. In exchange for that, I have given up the profound wonder of healing and curing the sick, but I honestly feel rather glad of that. I’ve come to see how damaged I am in my approach to life, and am in need of a little self-healing. Life is stressful and demanding enough; adding one’s own unremitting self-criticism and cruelty is really quite unnecessary.

The Perks of Being a Doctor

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When you grow up in a medical family, you notice how useful it is to know a doctor. Our friends come to my father constantly with their problems; whether it’s for advice, reading a scan or even organising a scan, knowing a brilliant Radiologist like my dad is an exceptional advantage.

My uncle is my dentist. I still feel a bit guilty when we go to his house for dinner and eat dessert in front of him.

Down the road are a married couple. She’s our family’s GP and he’s a paediatrician (and formerly my boss) at the hospital, but they’re old family friends as well. If ever I need advice, both their mobile numbers are on my phone. I don’t feel guilty about his because it means I won’t take up valuable patient slots at the practice. I guess it helps that I’m a doctor myself and tend to know what’s wrong with me already, but it’s just so practical to not have to make an appointment when I know that all I need is a quick chat. That appointment can be left for someone who really needs it.

I remember when I accidentally dropped my brother down the stairs when he was a baby (yes, it was an accident, although my brother now teases me mercilessly about how I did it on purpose, and declares that any mental deficit he suffers from is my fault). After my dad arranged head scan for him, and a paediatrician friend checked him over, they confirmed he was absolutely fine, so I now tell my brother that all his failings are his alone!

It’s not just family and friends. The cleaning lady, the postman, the handy man and even the gardener have all asked for assistance and advice, and my dad has always been very giving of his time to those in need. Cynics call it nepotism, and the GMC has very strict rules about how far you can go as a doctor to treat those you know personally, but I really think society has become so obsessed with this concept of impartiality that they’ve forgotten that it’s human nature to use what you know to help those around you.

Which brings me to what happened last night: over the last week or so, my fiancé has been complaining of a ‘spot’ on the back of his hand. It did just look like a regular spot, but it was hurting him a lot. As the days went by, the area became redder, more swollen and more painful. I treated it with all the over-the-counter things I could think of, but nothing seemed to be working. Last night, when he came home from work, it looked worse than it ever had before, and I was certain it was cellulitis. There was possibly also an abscess, and he needed antibiotics. My fiancé, however, has only just started a new job, and was irritated at the thought of having to take time off work so early. Making an appointment at his GP practice was always difficult, and he had no desire to wait around in a hospital for treatment.

I was at my wits end trying to figure out what to do. My home town was too far away to ask my GP or family for help. If I was still practising, I could so easily solve this problem! Even though you’re not allowed to prescribe for family members, it would have been simple enough to take him along to the hospital and get one of my colleagues to see him. Hell, I could have even lanced the damn abscess myself! As it was, I couldn’t even put a dressing on for him. When I was a doctor, I had access to all this stuff.

I really felt that I was failing him. And yet, I chose this. It’s not my job any more.

Luckily we had a hand from Dr Karen Morton, founder of online GP service Dr Morton’s. She  told my fiancé it was serious and needed immediate treatment. I’m so thankful she called, because I would never have been able to convince him to go to A&E otherwise!

11.30pm. Along we went to Whipps Cross. Funnily enough, we were in and out within an hour. I guess that, with the strike going on, people were staying away from A&E. We were seen by a lovely nurse who made us both laugh. She dressed and cleaned the hand, and gave us the antibiotics and painkillers he needed.

While we were in the waiting room, my fiancé asked me why I was upset. I told him how I felt; that I missed being a clinician. I was so frustrated that I knew exactly what to do and yet couldn’t make it happen. I felt like crying. Medicine was such a huge part of my identity, I didn’t know how to be without it – I didn’t feel like anything without it. I know this sounds melodramatic, but I was tired and frazzled, and seeing my fellow doctors strike earlier had stirred up a lot of emotions.

“Medicine’s not who you are, it’s just something you did for a bit,” my fiancé told me kindly, “You’re more than just a doctor, you know.”

I told him about a doctor I’d met that morning on the picket line of Guys and St Thomas’ hospital. I interviewed him for this blog and he told me about how he used to have anxiety attacks every time he came near the hospital. He pushed through it, however, and is now a paediatric trainee.

I remember that feeling. I remember feeling sick with fear before every shift. I remember having to coax myself out of bed in the morning, just to get up the courage to go to work. I remember the amount of wine I needed to get myself through a run of nightshifts. It wasn’t a healthy place to be, but I felt I had given up too early. Should I have just carried on, hoping one day it would finally be ok? Should I have, as some friends suggested, restarted my antidepressants, just so I could get through my training?

“What are you talking about?” said my fiancé, “You did something you hated for 8 years and now you think you didn’t give it enough of a chance? I never got to see you when you were a doctor. You were constantly tired, and always ill. We never knew where you were going to be from one year to the next, and we couldn’t plan anything in advance because you never knew your rota. You were grumpy and miserable, and you just weren’t you. It’s different, now you’ve stopped; I actually get to spend time with you.”

It was the first time my fiancé had ever told me honestly what it was really like for him when I was working. It dawned on me that maybe my inability to treat his cellulitis didn’t fail him as much as my former lifestyle had.

We walked out of Whipps Cross together, after a free appointment, with two boxes of free medication in our hands. The NHS really is amazing. I definitely took what I did as a doctor for granted – it was my job, after all – but it was incredible, and that’s why it’s so hard to walk away. But looking at the striking doctors from a distance, I can see things in a way that I couldn’t before: even after everything the NHS puts them through, doctors still continue to fight for it, and when you put it like that, their struggle is more poignant than ever.

 

Click here for an exclusive interview with a junior doctor on the picket line.

So… what do you do?

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December is the prime time for this question, or versions thereof. With everyone getting together for Christmas and New Year, I knew I would be catching up with friends and relatives and meeting new people, so small talk would be abundant for a good two or three weeks. I have to admit, I was dreading it. I was afraid of their judgement and remarks. I suppose I was also afraid of how I would react to their reactions. I could hardly justify my situation to myself, so how could I justify it to others?

I have always taken it for granted that I could give people a satisfactory progress report. “I’m in year 13” turned into “I’m in year X at medical school,” which turned into “I’m working at such-and-such hospital.” The only variation to contend with was the inevitable follow up question: “Have you chosen your speciality yet?”

Traditionally, the responses I have given to these queries have depended largely on how I feel about the person asking them. With kindred spirits – the people I feel will really listen and might understand my point of view – I am honest, but mostly I’ve just been busy hiding my true feelings about it all these years, even from the people closest to me.

As Christmas loomed, everything seemed so complicated. What was I supposed to say when people asked me what I was doing now?

“I had a quarter-life crisis and quit my job with no plan B, so I’m now officially unemployed and relying on my savings and my fiancé to get by. I have no current certainty or prospects, and not much of an idea about what to do, except a vague plan to write a novel that I’m unjustifiably optimistic about.”

It sounded terrible. I almost wanted to avoid the festive parties altogether to save myself from this humiliating admission. I also felt bad for my parents – when people asked them how I was getting on, they would be having exactly the same problem.

Then, two things happened to me.

The first was deciding to locum after my little visit to the job centre. That gave me something solidly medical to say, and was a relief. “I’m locuming at the moment” is a brilliant answer for those you don’t really want to talk to, and who are just asking you for the sake of saying something. It’s satisfying for both parties and the perfect precursor for a swift exit line.

The other was this: at the start of December, in between dancing for joy and plunging into the depths of despair, I started job hunting on the Guardian website. I found an ad I was interested in for a managerial role in a charity, but being inexperienced with this sort of thing, I was doubtful. I worried that I didn’t meet the criteria in many of the job specifications, because a lot of them stated the necessity for formal qualifications or specific experience. But, as my fiancé told me, job specs are not hard and fast rules. They represent the ‘ideal’, and most companies would rather hire the closest match than wait for the perfect candidate. My career coach has also been helping me to realise the value of the skills and experiences I already have.

So I shot off my CV, not really believing anything would come of it. Then two weeks later, I got a call. The charity had said my application was certainly unusual, but they had loved it. They offered me a telephone interview, and after that, they offered me a formal interview. I’m going in for it next week. Whether or not I get the job in the end, it’s been such a boost for me just getting to interview.

It’s also nice to sing my own praises. It’s not something I got to do much in medicine – it was more about people assessing me. ARCPs are tick-boxing exercises and applying for clinical jobs requires more form-filling and exam-taking than knowledge of your true strengths, skills and weaknesses. It’s just the nature of the medical profession that everybody is presumed to have all the necessary skills for their level. As a result, the thought of doing a non-medical interview is scary. No longer can I rest on my laurels; I actually have to prove myself. It’s made me sit down and think about what I’m really good at, what suits me and what I really want – perhaps for the first time in my entire life.

As the Yuletide approached, I started to see my situation is a different light. Yes, there are things in my current situation that I don’t like, but there is also plenty of potential. This is a really exciting time for me, and I really need to give myself a break. It sounds cliché to ‘have faith in yourself’ and to ‘stay positive’ but these little things can be incredibly difficult to do. I still struggle sometimes, but I’m working my way towards another cliché where I see my glass as half full.

So now, when people ask ‘what are you doing now?’ I have an answer I’m proud of:

“Well, I’m planning to locum while transitioning into a new career. I’ve got an interview with a charity soon for a management role. In the meantime, I’m volunteering for Medic Footprints to help other doctors in their careers – a role that I got because the directors were impressed by an article about their conference on my personal blog. I’m also researching the British colonization of Asia to give historical accuracy to the novel I am currently writing.”

There. Sounds much better doesn’t it? And the best things are: it’s all true, and I can say it to everyone.

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Image from Malla.

Malla is a small business coach and expert at answering this question!

Officially Unemployed

When I talked to my dad about my resignation, it was difficult to bear the disappointment in his voice when he said:

“So, what, you’re officially unemployed now are you?”

I hit all kinds of low when I took myself along to the Job Centre before Christmas to register as unemployed. It was my fiancé’s idea – he did it when he graduated until he found his first job, and didn’t see any shame in it.

“You might as well try it,” he said, “You might not get the allowance anyway because you left voluntarily, but it will be a new experience for you.”

So I went along with some reluctance. It was so strange. As I went through the doors, narrowly escaping a dubious-looking guy at the front door who was attempting to sign people up for something, I felt an extreme sense of shame. It’s hard for me to write about it now, in fact. All my hard work and good grades had come to this.

I took a seat inside and waited to be called. They were running late by quite some time, so I had a good opportunity to look around at my fellow claimants. I live in a fairly run-down part of London, so I wasn’t surprised that many of them looked unkempt and down-trodden. We all kept our heads down and avoided eye-contact. This wasn’t a situation that encouraged chit-chat. A loud argument broke out between a claimant and an irate employee nearby. It seemed he hadn’t brought any paperwork at all with him and expected her to simply believe he was who he said he was.

My name was finally called. My assessor was a Muslim lady who did a double take when she looked at my application. She was (quite rightly) astounded that I was a qualified doctor. Why on earth was I here?

“What happened?” she cried.

I began to speak, and as I did, I think I was more honest than I have been with anyone for a long time. I told her how I simply couldn’t face going in anymore. I told her about my illness and how it knocked me. I told her about the anxiety I felt about working as a doctor. As I spoke, the reality of how little I valued myself began to sink in. I felt completely pathetic – a broken woman – crawling along, a shell of her former self. Without Medicine I felt totally worthless.

Her eyes softened as she listened to my story. She then talked me through my options, and told me about the process of claiming the benefit. She said we would need to meet at least once or twice a week, and that I would need to keep a log book, and how I would need to prove that I was trying to get work by signing on to a specific forum and spending 35 hours a week actively looking for work. It felt very demeaning and paternalistic, like I was a prisoner on parole.

At the end of our meeting, she noticed it was my birthday the next day, and asked me if I was doing anything nice. I told her I didn’t really feel like there was much to celebrate this year.

“Oh, don’t say that,” she said, kindly, “Sometimes when thing like this happen, it works out for the better in the end.”

She told me about how she had trained and worked as a dental hygienist many years ago, but something happened that made it impossible for her to practice.

“At the time I thought it was a disaster, but now I realise it worked out for the best. My nephew is quite seriously unwell and is often admitted to hospital, but my brother doesn’t have the time to look after him because he’s a GP. There’s no one else but me who can be there to pick him up from school when he’s ill, or sit with him for hours in A&E. Some of my family still say it would be better for me to go back to my old job, because it’s a better career, but sometimes you just have to look at the bigger picture.”

She told me to go out with my friends for my birthday and have a good time. Despite my desperate state, she saw someone deserving of a celebration, and I will never forget that. The kindness of a stranger can be incredibly touching, and for a moment I had a weird feeling that I was meant to meet this good lady, that there was a reason it was she who saw me that day.

As I walked out of that building, once again dodging the guy with the clipboard, I knew I would not be coming back. I realised that behaving like the pathetic and helpless person I felt I was only propagated the idea, and I was better than this! In some bizarre way, I was living up to the new expectations that were placed upon me: weak, dependant and needy. Other people had given up on me, so now I had too.

I decided I wasn’t going to do this anymore. From now on, I was going to define myself by what I knew to be true. Regardless of whether I would be approved for unemployment benefit or not, I resolved to withdraw my application, and not to take a penny. (Just as well, really, because I was not approved!)

When I got home, I sent off my paperwork to the locum agency. Previously I’d felt incredibly anxious and scared about walking into a hospital again, so I kept putting off applying for locum work. I guess I still feel a bit anxious, but I no longer feel crippled by it. My fiancé laughed when I told him about my change of heart.

“Haha! It’s because I’ve shown you the alternative!” he said, referring to the process of claiming benefits.

I stuck my tongue out at him, and denied it, but he was right. By making me do this, he has shown me a very alternative way of thinking. An alternative where, instead of thinking about what I can’t do, I think about what I can.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A New Year letter from my better self to me:

Peach,

This year, for the first time in perhaps your whole life, you have opened your eyes to who you really are.

Your history of anxiety, self-loathing and doubt have left you feeling scared in the face of this discovery. “Is it too late to change?” you say. “I should have done things differently.”

As much as you are enjoying your new freedom and renewed vision, your negativity is holding you back from embracing it.

So I challenge you in this year ahead to change your attitude. Do not see the past as a waste, but as the path that led you here. Do not regret your former actions because without them you wouldn’t see the value of what you are now. This is your opportunity to do something you really want to do; your investment in yourself now is you saying “I am WORTH investing in!”

The months ahead are not going to be easy. The road you’ve chosen is a difficult one, and you will encounter disappointment. You will fail. You will perhaps wonder why you left the safety and security you had before. So let me write the reasons down here so you can remind yourself:

You left because you have a gift that no one else has. You have a goal that no one else can do but you. You have an inexplicable, unshakeable faith in something that inspires you, and so will inspire other people.

Whatever happens, do not give up the fight. Do not regard the opinions of those who confuse the easy path with the right one. You are clever enough and savvy enough to know how far you should go.

Peach, you have remembered who you are. Mad romantic, dreamer, visionary, optimist. Do not ever forget it again.

 

Hitting Rock Bottom – apparently you bounce

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It’s been two weeks since I stopped working. Two weeks sober. What a fortnight I have had…

When I woke up the next day at 8am instead of 6am and had nowhere to be, it felt delicious. The hours of the day stretched out before me, with waves of potential, and to be honest, all I really wanted was to have a break for a bit. I knew I would need time to process leaving Medicine. I didn’t quite anticipate the size of the grief reaction that was about to hit me.

The following Friday, I took myself down to Russell Square where the Professional Support Unit is based. I called them before I left my last job on the advice of the Dean and I really can’t recommend them enough for any doctor in training (foundation or speciality) who is in trouble. They provide all sort of help, from confidential mental health support to career coaching. When I called I had a really interesting conversation with a lady who turned out to be herself a creative – she is a freelance screenwriter who also works on a freelance basis for the Professional Support Unit. They allocated her to be my mentor, I suppose because of our common interest in writing.

We sat down together in a little room with the sunlight streaming in, and we talked. She asked me about my strengths, my likes, my dislikes and my values. And do you know, I found it so hard to articulate those things. After all that communications training, and despite my own quadrilingual tongue, I could not think of a word to say for myself. I panicked internally; how the hell was I going to perform in future interviews if the answer to “what are your strengths?” was silence?

I can’t really say I’ve ever thought much about any of those things. My strength was always my ability to pass exams or ARCPs, my values were insignificant because I was already doing something of such great value, and as for my likes and dislikes, that conversation mainly revolved around the choice between doing medicine or surgery, or between being a hospital doctor or a GP.

My mentor (I will call her ‘Jane’ for the purposes of this) then tried a different tack. She asked me to describe different experiences in my life. She got me to talk about the time I did some voluntary work in West Nepal, and suddenly, talking became a whole lot easier. I could actually appreciate the fact that turning up in the middle of nowhere in an unknown country was pretty brave. I could see that, after being told I was going to be an English teacher but then when I got there, they needed me to be an Art teacher for deaf young people and Dance teacher for street kids, I needed a great deal of adaptability and quick thinking to provide that.

“You’re a storyteller,” Jane told me, “You find it easier to talk about yourself through the medium of stories.”

Deep down, I’ve always known this. I novelise everything because it makes it easier for me to understand and therefore easier to cope with the difficult things in life. I didn’t realise this was a good interview technique.

She gave me some homework to do and I left feeling pretty positive. I realised that now was the perfect time to get to know myself a little better – not with a view to becoming self-centred, but more with the aim to appreciate what’s there already and what isn’t, and to have confidence in my strengths while appreciating my weaknesses. I started to look at my CV, which is very medic-orientated, and tried to see how I could change it to make sense to non-clinical people.

Then the doubt set in.

One day last week, my dad called me up with the express desire to talk about my career. What am I doing now? I’m just lying around at home? Officially unemployed. After all that work, I’m unemployed. So how am I managing financially? Oh, I’m using my savings? Well that’s not very sensible, is it? Am I just going to be a housewife now? Am I going to rely on my fiancé for everything now?

It was so distressing that I couldn’t carry on with the conversation. The idea that no longer being a doctor meant I could only ever be a housewife was ringing in my ears, and I was crying. I tried to rally myself: ‘I will find a job. It might even be a well-paid one, who knows? I will earn my own money and be a useful member of society.’ But it was no use, because when you’re faced with people around you who are baffled by your choices:

“I just don’t understand why you didn’t finish F2! Even if you didn’t want to continue being a doctor in the future, why didn’t you finish F2? It’s bad not to complete things. When you start something, you should finish it. You only had 4 months to go! What are your reasons? What’s your plan?”

These are reasonable questions to ask, and I know the people ask them are just worried about me and wan the best for me, but I find it hard to reveal my real reasons because I fear they won’t be taken seriously. I left because my heart was telling me to, and my only definite plan at the moment is to finish my novel while somehow finding my way into the right career. Such delicate and vague ideas are too easily quashed before they blossom, so I protect them from the storm around me by keeping them to myself.

People tell me that I’m just too romantic. I’m just a dreamer. A friend of mine told me all the people she knew who had tried to do something different and had ended up crawling back to their original profession with tails between legs, but she also told me that even if I manage to get another job, it will never make up for the fact that I didn’t finish my F2, because this is the biggest mistake of my life and I will regret it.

It makes me feel panicky just recalling these conversations. I feel like a small child who had done something very bad and was now being scolded, but it was worse, because I didn’t have the protection of being a small child. I am an adult, supposed to be successful, supposed to be self-sufficient, but all I am is one great big failure.

There it was. That word. Failure.

It’s surprisingly easy to go from niggling doubts at the back of your mind to full-blown depression. It’s a well-trodden path for me, so I know the way down pretty well, and down I went. I felt completely and utterly worthless. The weight of my mistakes and my decisions weighed heavily upon me, and I just couldn’t see how I was of any use or benefit to anyone in this world. I was only a burden on my parents, on my fiancé and all my friends. I was so low and so anxious that I couldn’t even bear the thought of locuming! What was the point of continuing? What the hell was the point of me?

Thankfully, the way back up is also a well-trodden path for me, and what I have found is, when you feel that way, you internalise everything. Paradoxically, you do become self-centred, caught in a loop of negative feedback with you in the middle of it. You break that when you connect with other people, and specifically when you help other people.

On my birthday last Friday, I went to look after my friend, who recently was admitted to hospital, and was coming home to an empty house, as her husband was away in Sri Lanka. I made her lunch and did some jobs for her, and helping her made me feel like a good person again, and she helped me by listening to me and comforting me.

I had just come back from running some errands for her when I noticed some books on her bookshelf. They were her husband’s books about the history of Sri Lanka, written during the 1800s. I could hardly believe my luck! My novel is historically based on the British colonisation of Sri Lanka and here in front of me were books documenting that very period! I asked her if I could borrow them.

I am now sitting on my sofa at home, exactly where I was a week ago, when I was so paralysed by fear and doubt that I felt unequal to everything, but now I have a book in my hand. I’m reading two others at the same time. Researching this topic is exciting! It’s actually fascinating to get a glimpse of what happened and how people lived in those days. My hand alternates between pens and highlighters and I’m brainstorming about how to include all this history in my story. The time passes quickly and I am in my element.

Things aren’t completely OK yet, but this enthusiasm is infinitely better than the despair I felt last week. I still feel really concerned that people will think I’m just bumming around and sapping resources, but I’m beginning to see that worrying myself into a frenzy is just about the perfect way of becoming the very thing I’m afraid of. I am not a failure. As for being accused of being a ‘romantic’ – that’s absolutely correct. Count me with the dreamers, and watch me make a career out of it.