My clinical work was spurring self-diagnosis, not to mention some covert pill-popping. All of the students were undergoing similar self-analysis. But I was alone in the insecurity of believing that I belonged in a bed rather than treating those in the beds.
Living alone, without much outside contact, my mind would race through the categories of mental problems enumerated in the DSM-V psychiatric manual.
The potential disorders were numerous: from serious anxiety, obsessive-compulsive behavior, bipolar depression, and post-traumatic stress to even more serious syndromes such as schizophrenia. It felt like I had all of the above.
My dreams were filled with monstrous scenarios out of a bad horror movie. I was always climbing a ladder that led nowhere or falling into a murky abyss. It was a relief to wake up in a sweat and stagger to work where, of course, I had to force myself to appear normal amidst all the lunacy around me.
Underneath it all, there was the rage that I felt surfacing from childhood. Was I a potential sociopath, the diagnosis reserved for people without consciences who were fertile prospects to commit violent crimes? Then there was the theory of sublimation. We were taught that all surgeons had violent tendencies but had learned to repress and translate those urges into saving lives versus snuffing them out.
I had seen firsthand that surgeons had aggressive, narcissistic personalities; perhaps there was an uncontrollable inner monster dwelling within me.
I was at the breaking point. I knew I needed help. And then, God bless, my friend Laura returned from the Maldives. She had called immediately.
“Laura! Are you finally on hiatus from your world tour?”
“Woohoo! I start pediatrics tomorrow!”
We arranged to meet for coffee in fifteen minutes.
Laura skipped into the café, her long, jet-black hair streaming down against her tanned skin as she let out a scream and hugged me. Laura had a demeanor and body language that said, “I’m having hot sex with gorgeous international men on a regular basis.”
She didn’t need to have her head shrunk. If there was anxiety about her sanity, Laura had the antidote: “a good, steady shagging.”She sat down across from me, blue eyes sparkling like the ocean she’d just crossed.
“So how are you, Ror?”
“I’m okay, Laura. How was your trip, I mean trips, how were they?”
“That will take us into next Tuesday! More importantly, how are rotations? Was surgery everything you dreamed it would be?”
“Well, it certainly wassometype of dream. More in the B-movie category of horror.”
“Aw-no. It was that bad?”
“Laura”—I let out a sigh I must have been holding for weeks—“I don’t know what to do. I wanted to be a doctor, but the people... so many bullies and assholes. I’ve been eaten alive. The closest thing I have to sex is autostimulation. And I’m going crazy, literally. I’ve lost my internal locus of control. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I want to kill everybody.”
“Oh baby, baby, baby. You’ve got to get some professional help. Look, Rory. I like medicine fair enough. I’m going to do pediatrics because I like kids. But here’s the deal: you don’t see me following the rules everyone has set out for me. No sir. That’s not my life. I do what I want, travel the globe, follow my heart, and accept the consequences.”
“I wish I had your formula. How do you do it? I admire your moxie.”
“Rory. It’s simple. Swim in your own lane and don’t give a fuck about everything else. Think of how men handle it. Life is Darwinian, so survival goes to the killer instinct.”
Her words sounded very sensible to my fragile mind. By God, I was going to get my shit together.
“One more thing, Rory. You need a man. A real, live, normal human being who will adore you and have fun and drag you at every opportunity into the sack.”
“I’m not ready for an intense relationship. I need to heal.”
“Hey girl, you gotta loosen the chastity belt and stop hiding your bushel under jockey shorts.”
I knew she was right, but I was terrified. While Laura’s return was a definite tonic, my improvement was a slow process. The neurotic night terrors featuring Amir as my savior were growing. At last, I did go to a shrink and found some solace and nightly peace.
But the scar tissue remained. The depression and general angst would bubble up at odd moments. My anger was still a raw wound, although there were intervals of calm. As challenging and brutal as the experience had been, though, I longed to be invited again back to the OR club for a second chance with its protocol of a masquerade ball where all of us were masked and anonymous.
I knew my mental condition was still precarious. There were plenty of nights when spurts of tears contradicted the idea that crying wasn’t allowed in surgery. The inner warrior was reviving but not in full battle mode yet.
“What’s wrong with you, Ror?” Laura pressed her face to my ear. “You need to thaw out.”
“Laura, the closest I have come to intimacy is admiring cross sections of male anatomy in my Basic Science book.”
