# aaron's story...can anyone relate to this?



## adg5g (May 21, 2007)

I am a 22 year old medical student. I did not have what I would call a traumatic childhood, but I did witness my fathers death from cancer when I was 3. As a child and adolescent I dealt with some depression, but nothing that I would consider abnormal for someone in the throes of puberty. I have always been interested in the natural order, the way things worked, the human body, consciousness, the origins of life, astrophysics, etc. I became aware of my own mortality at a very early age (likely due to my father's death). I spent much time pondering death. Not always in an obsessive or phobic way, but often in an academic or intellectual manner. I was a poor student in high school due to adolescent hedonism and lack of motivation. I went to college, decided to pursue medicine and actually began doing quite well academically. I became obsessed with becoming a physician. Specifically, I developed an interest in the medically underserved and uninsured. I was doing well enough to gain acceptance into medical school, but I was convinced that being a physician was somehow too good to actually be a part of my destiny. I was convinced that my academic performance would end up being a short-lived fluke or that serious illness would prohibit me from entering medicine. These notions were the source of much anxiety. 
Many people find solace in religion; I wouldn't categorize myself as very religious, but I do believe that things happen for a reason and that there is some type of force that directs and channels isolated events together into what we know as existence. Consequently, I took comfort in the possibility that there may be a reason why I went to college and did well in science courses and had an interest in medicine and had an interest in poverty. When I got into medical school, my unusual and admittedly egocentric form of spirituality was reinforced. I felt that medicine was my calling and not just a career choice. I was, however, still afraid that I would somehow be prevented from practicing medicine.
My fears were seemingly realized. Shortly before my graduation from college I had an episode of vertigo that lasted less than an hour. My equilibrium quickly returned, but this short episode was enough plant an ominous seed in my consciousness. Notions of impending doom insidiously displaced anything resembling normal emotions. I suspected (read "knew") that I had brain cancer. My GP was reassuring and ordered a CT to rule out "such an unlikely scenario". When the CT came back unremarkable I reasoned that multiple sclerosis was the culprit as MS can cause vertigo and is difficult to detect on a CT. Several days later I noticed a strange sensation. I attempted to explain it to a physician:

"I feel detached."
"Emotionally detached?"
"I don't think so. Physically detached...from the world."

The physician did not understand. How could he be expected to? How can one explain what it feels like not to exist when he can't explain what it feels like to exist? The sensation endured. I tried to write it off as residual dizziness from what my GP theorized was a viral infection. But I knew this feeling wasn't dizziness and I knew the cause wasn't a virus (I was still convinced that I had MS). I still find it difficult to describe this sensation. We are all aware of what happens when we repeat a familiar word many times in rapid succession. The word begins to sound foreign, unfamiliar, even silly. It was almost as if I had woken up so many mornings and existed so many times, my existence suddenly became foreign and unfamiliar. The world seemed flat and dull, but paradoxically, my senses were easily overwhelmed. Walking was a strange endeavor for me; I felt like I was watching my progress remotely from some kind of invisible camera mounted to my own head. It was not like an out of body experience. I still felt as though I was inside of my body, but I just was not a part of my body. Crowds of people were the most disconcerting experience. I sensed every sound uttered and every movement made by every single person in sight no matter how subtle, yet none of it made sense. I recall listening to a favorite song, and singing along, but not recognizing my own voice. Weeks of anxiety, depression, and detachment followed. It was the perfect existential crisis. I was in mourning for both my future, and as a direct result, my fragile faith. It was an introspective and existential nightmare. I came to realize that there is no plan, things do not happen for a reason, and we are no more or less significant than the insects we trample over each day. I was not afraid of death (in fact, I welcomed the thought of it at times),but I was suddenly terrified of living without a purpose.
My luck changed. I had a lumbar puncture done and the results were normal. I later had an MRI that was also unremarkable. These results did not rule out the possibility that I had MS, but did make the scenario less likely. My depression and anxiety lifted. I can't put my finger on when, but so did my "detachment". I lived like a normal human being for months. I went back to being able to take my "existence" for granted. The respite would not last.
Strange symptoms precipitated a trip to the doctor's office once again (this time in the form of abdominal pain). A CT revealed that a mass on my kidney was the source of my discomfort. The first CT was not accurate enough to differentiate a solid tumor (likely cancer) from a cystic mass (likely benign). After weeks of anxiety, several additional imaging studies, and numerous "second opinions" the consensus was that the mass is cystic and likely (but not certainly) benign. Shortly after, I noticed a tingling sensation in my hands and feet. My stomach dropped, I knew immediately that this was another manifestation of my self-diagnosed multiple sclerosis (or better yet, some type of paraneoplastic syndrome secondary to whatever was proliferating in my kidney). I consult another Physician, who attributes these paresthesias to anxiety (not an unreasonable diagnosis), but I already have my own diagnosis. Gradually, despair creeps back into my daily routine, and so does my "detachment". It doesn't arouse the same fear this time around. Its familiar now. I now know what to expect; and in a strange way, I almost welcome the feeling. I feel less alive, but less vulnerable as well. Some doctors believe thats the purpose of the phenomenon, to protect our minds from thoughts that we can't handle; to buffer us from reality. I'm not sure that I care what the purpose is. Maybe I should care. Maybe I do... I'm just not sure anymore...


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## szeret (Aug 7, 2007)

adg5g said:


> It was the perfect existential crisis. I was in mourning for both my future, and as a direct result, my fragile faith. It was an introspective and existential nightmare. I came to realize that there is no plan, things do not happen for a reason, and we are no more or less significant than the insects we trample over each day.


I can really empathise with you, I also came to DP through philosophical means. man came from beast, beast from lifeless matter. What really seperates us from machines, when there is no soul? 
Hypocondria is also something that has damaged my existance.


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