Hey, all.
As many of you know, I have spent much of the past few months looking for neuroscience and psychiatric research work, both through assistantships and graduate school. I’m currently waiting to hear from a number of places and emailing PIs in these fields.
In explaining why I wish to pursue neuroscience, personal history invariably arises. And thus arises the tricky part, because I can’t explain why I want to pursue neuroscience without bringing family into the problem.
I’ve made no secret of the fact that I have anxiety issues. As a young child—six or so—I suffered obsessive-compulsive disorder so severe that my parents had to take me out of school. I still remember those little white SSRI pills, and the compulsion to clean. My problems are less OCD now, and more social anxiety; I constantly feel a need to prove that I am “good enough,” and measure myself against the people I respect most (who, inevitably, are the people who are most productive or most successful while still remaining satisfied with their lives). Nor am I the only one in my family: my uncle has OCD (he won’t see a psychiatrist, but the entire family knows he has it), at least two cousins have suffered anorexia, my brother had mild OCD, and my sister had anorexia nervosa so severe that, for three months, the sight of a full plate caused panic attacks. With the exception of my uncle (who, as I said, refuses to seek treatment), all have recovered; still, my experience, and the experience of my family, is what sparked and continues to motivate my interest in psychiatry.
Almost all employers and schools want to know why its interviewees want a position. When looking at psychiatric research, I need to mention this history if I am to answer honestly. Yet, mentioning a familial or personal history of anxiety is usually the kiss of death in an interview; so I must dissemble or obfuscate if I wish to answer at all.
I understand why employers and schools do this. Taking on a student or employee with a health history, particularly one as unpredictable and poorly understood as a neuropsychiatric problem, is a tremendous risk. Yet, from my perspective, it feels like I must hide my motives in order to even have a chance of pursuing my goals.
Personally, I see my anxiety as a mixed bag. Certainly, it means that I build a shell in social environments and have a very difficult time opening to others; certainly, it means that I’m sensitive to insult and hostility; certainly, it affects my ability to multitask, since I feel a need to finish one task before starting another (or at least meet benchmarks in it); certainly, it’s caused tunnel vision in the past (I’m trying to avoid that in future); and, beyond doubt, it causes suffering and health problems in the afflicted (me). Yet, it has benefits as well. I may have difficulty multitasking, but when I set my mind to a project, I focus laser-like on the problem. The fact that I need to “prove myself” makes me seek constant improvement, and drives me to produce high-quality work. That I can focus on a task to the exclusion of all else means that the task gets done, and fear of being caught flat-footed means I don’t half-ass work or bullshit my way through meetings; I don’t speak unless I have something to say. The need for benchmarks keeps me scheduled, keeps me moving, and keeps me motivated. And the drive to improve, to prove myself capable, to, in the words of Darwin Smith, “never stop trying to be qualified for the job,” means that I reflect on my actions and think about how to avoid repeating past mistakes. I wish all this didn’t come with anxiety and shyness, but that is part of the package.
You can’t understand me without knowing that I am anxious. It’s part and parcel of who I am. I want to be honest about it. I don’t want to hide it; I don’t want to be judged by it. I want to show that it can be controlled, it can be tamed, and it can be used.
No comments:
Post a Comment