My Professor Changed My Life
I was 22 years old when I realized I was seriously depressed. I’d recently gone back to BYU to finish my bachelor’s degree, after serving a mission for the Mormon church in Mendoza, Argentina. While I was living in Argentina, my thyroid gland sputtered to a stop. Although I was a textbook case of hypothyroidism, the Argentine doctors weren’t able to diagnose me. My hair had started turning white prematurely, I’d gained 60 pounds despite walking all day from 9 a.m. till 9 p.m., and my skin had gotten so rough and dry that it looked like scales on my calves and forearms. The doctors told me I was nearly diabetic, had high cholesterol, and needed to lose weight. But they didn’t diagnose the cause of all these problems.
Being overweight in Argentina was quite humiliating. I am an “apple” metabolic shape, so when I gain weight, it all goes to my breasts and belly. I looked seven months pregnant with my round belly and huge breasts. Argentines are a very friendly and forthright people, and love to coo over pregnant strangers. It gets a little embarrassing when the pregnant stranger is actually a Mormon missionary who is strictly prohibited from having sex. I grew very tired of well-meaning Argentine women placing their hands tenderly on my belly and asking when my baby was due. “No estoy embarazada,” I’d tell them. “Solamente estoy gorda.” (I’m not pregnant; I’m just fat.) Then they would laugh, pat my belly again, and tell me about their favorite diet, on which they lost 10 kilos in a month.
Upon returning to the U.S., I went to the doctor’s office. The doctor took one look at me and ordered a thyroid function test. Once I was prescribed thyroid hormone, I began to lose weight slowly. But I still felt lethargic and mentally foggy from the long period of undiagnosed thyroid disease, as well as extremely insecure about my weight. I went back to BYU and struggled in my classes. I would read the same paragraph in my textbook over and over and not retain anything I just read. I had to retake several classes. I felt like a stupid, fat failure. My brain just did not work the same as it did before my thyroid gland malfunctioned. Some days I just couldn’t find the energy to get up and go to class. A roommate took it upon herself to call my mom when I stayed in bed for three days straight, only getting up to use the bathroom and eat. My mother did her best to convince me to see a therapist, to no avail.
I remember feeling absolutely despondent about my life one day. I had been crying on and off all day about nothing in particular. I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, leaning against the wall. The wall formed a sharp edge where it met my closet, and I had a strong urge to bash my head against the edge and die. This thought prompted two self-realizations that there really was something wrong with me. For one, I realized I was feeling suicidal. And two, I was not thinking straight at all. Bashing my head against a closet would be the stupidest way ever to try to commit suicide. All that would lead to was a concussion. I was nearly convinced to seek help of some sort, but it seemed like too much effort. I was already exhausted from trying to not fail all of my classes.
A couple of weeks later, I sat in my Human Physiology class, staring into space and trying to absorb as much as my worn-out brain could. After class, my professor asked me to stay an extra minute.
“How are you doing, Anna?” he asked. “You didn’t look like you felt very well today.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” I replied. “Just tired.”
He paused. “Actually, I’ve been worried about you. I’ve been watching you in class and it doesn’t really seem like you’re there at all. You look…lost. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I assured him everything was fine.
“Well, I don’t mean to overstep, but you seem very depressed. I know how depression looks because I have it, too. And it’s okay to have depression. It’s just a disease, no different than any other. It just needs to be treated. I go to a counselor and take anti-depressants, and I am able to function quite well,” he said.
I was very surprised to hear that someone as smart, likable, and successful as my professor had depression. I was also surprised to hear that he thought I had depression. I hadn’t thought of it as a disease. I had been feeling like there was something wrong with me, but I thought it was my fault for feeling the way I did. I just needed to stop being lazy and negative. Hearing that the way I was feeling might not be my fault made me feel just a tiny bit lighter inside.
My professor talked to me for a few more minutes about his depression and how he dealt with it. In that time, he convinced me that I had an illness and I needed to take care of it. He spoke to me in an open and frank manner about depression that helped me to see I had nothing to be ashamed about. I told him about being sick with hypothyroidism in Argentina, and he told me that undiagnosed thyroid disease can cause problems with the myelination of neurons. The myelin sheath surrounding the neurons transmits electrical impulses, and when there isn’t enough of it, the brain doesn’t work at full speed. He told me it was possible the hypothyroidism had caused my depression.
I decided to make some changes in my life. I started seeing a counselor, and tried several different anti-depressants until I found one that worked well for me. The heavy darkness that had been suffocating me began to lift, and I was amazed by how bright and beautiful everything was. Nearly 20 years later, I still have depression, but now know how to manage it and live a happier life. I am extremely grateful that my professor cared enough about one of his many students and took the time to help me know that depression was nothing shameful. I hope that in sharing my experience, I can lessen the stigma of depression a little bit more.
