The irony wasn't lost on me. Here I was, a psychiatrist, a supposed expert in the human psyche, crumbling under the very weight of the pressures I so often helped others navigate. The thought was both humiliating and terrifying. To admit weakness, to acknowledge vulnerability, felt like a betrayal of everything I stood for – a betrayal of my profession, of my identity. The idea of seeking help, of revealing the cracks in my carefully constructed façade, filled me with a profound and paralyzing fear.
My colleagues, the people I interacted with daily, presented a seemingly impenetrable wall. They were successful, driven, and perpetually busy. Their lives were a whirlwind of conferences, publications, and the relentless pursuit of professional advancement. The unspoken code was clear: weakness was a liability, vulnerability a sign of failure. Mental health issues, especially amongst those who were supposed to be the pillars of strength in the healthcare system, were discussed in hushed tones, if at all. Seeking help was not an option; it was a career-ending risk. The fear of judgment, of being seen as incompetent or unstable, was a far greater burden than the exhaustion and anxiety that were slowly consuming me.
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