Science used to be my safe space. But when I spiraled into depression, I quit my Ph.D.
From ScienceMag:
When I checked myself out of a psychiatric hospital for the second time in 2 years, I finally realized something had to change. I’d been in denial for months, ignoring the mounting symptoms of depression as I pushed myself harder and harder in the lab. I had spent half my life working toward my dream of being a scientist. It had given me a sense of purpose. But now it dawned on me that, for the sake of my health, I was going to have to let that dream go.
“Ph.D. by the end of your 20s, betcha!” reads the inscription in the book my biology teacher gave me at my middle school graduation. She sparked my love of science, and her guidance and support gave me a sense of stability during a turbulent time. My parents had split up, and I found myself caring for my suicidal mother, who was struggling with depression and alcoholism. Instead of collapsing under the enormous weight, I found safety in science. “If I can explain the shaking world around me, I can deprive it of its gruesomeness,” I thought.
As I took on the responsibility of running a household and looking after my mother, the scientist in me emerged, transforming me into a striving, straight A student within a year. I dreamt of doing a Ph.D. in biology, and with my new, confident self, I was heading straight toward this goal. Nothing could stop me.
Nothing, that is, except for myself. Years later, I’d finally started my Ph.D. studies in biogeography when my past caught up with me. I’d just moved to a new city after a long relationship had shattered, and felt terribly lonely and utterly joyless. I couldn’t concentrate, and even basic tasks like reading papers or writing code became increasingly difficult. I was alarmed but unable to act as the seemingly solid foundation I’d built my life on rapidly eroded.
- Eric Martiné
- Philipps University of Marburg
When I finally reached out to a therapist, it was already too late. My mother used to talk of her depression “co-opting” her, describing herself as being completely at its mercy. I could never comprehend why she was so resigned to her misery—but now I saw that when depression rules your mind, you are not susceptible to reason. I became suicidal, and my therapist, alarmed, sent me to a psychiatric hospital.
My hospital stay was the first chance I’d had to talk about what I’d experienced as a child. In therapy, I came to understand how I’d turned to science to protect myself when I had to care for an unwell parent at such a young age. I’d continued to use science as an adult, I realized, as a way of trying to control the uncontrollable. I had detached myself not only from my negative feelings, but from almost all emotions, by viewing them “scientifically,” as nothing more than chemical reactions of my brain to the environment. Realizing these strategies were dysfunctional helped me find better ways to cope with depression. After providing years of emotional support for my mother, I realized I needed to put my own health first.
A year later, I returned to my Ph.D. My professor was supportive, and gave me the chance to start over with a new project. I pushed harder than ever, trying to compensate for the time lost while I was hospitalized. I was desperate, thinking, “If I fail, everything I built my life on will be in vain.” But I struggled to keep up, and my initial euphoria at being back at university faded rapidly. I drifted, once more, straight into crisis.
My second stay in the hospital finally cleared my mind. I’d become so obsessed with rationality that I had put my life at risk—twice. Admitting that I needed to leave science and focus on self-care and acceptance was frightening. At first, I felt more lost than ever before. But ultimately, failing in academia was the greatest relief I ever experienced. And now I have a new goal: I want to give back the precious care I was lucky to receive—by becoming a psychiatric nurse.