[TW: Drugs, suicide, depression] On March 7, 2018, I walked into a psychiatric clinic a couple miles east of Downtown Los Angeles. I sat in a black cushioned leather chair across a young doctor with dirty blonde hair, beady brown eyes, and a warm smile. I couldn’t tell whether she was a year or two older than me, but I knew she recently completed med school. Her name tag was labelled “residency.” She asked me what I needed help with that day, and I began to explain the plethora of symptoms I’ve had in the last year. The constant tiredness, the inability to enjoy the things I once found pleasure in, the isolation, the constant dread, the crying spells, the suicidal thoughts (that I’d never act upon), and the irritable, irrational, irate self that comes out a week or two before my period.
Author: Da Young Lisa Park
Category: SELF
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