Why I Sought Psychiatric Care — My Partner’s Advice and the Formalities of Sick Leave
A few days after I had poured out everything I had been holding inside to my manager through a computer screen, I visited a psychiatric clinic for the first time. There were two reasons behind my decision.
The first was my partner’s advice. Having worked for many years in corporate administration, they had encountered numerous people struggling with symptoms similar to mine. These were individuals whose mental health had deteriorated due to their working environment, who began seeing psychiatrists, and who eventually took sick leave.
The second reason was procedural. In order to make use of my company’s sick leave system, I was required to submit a medical certificate issued by a doctor.
When I made the appointment, I was gripped by a fear that felt like crossing a line I could never step back over. The thought of interrupting my career frightened me, as if I were turning back along a path I had already travelled and undoing everything that had come before.
When My Thoughts Fell Apart and My Body Would Not Move — Tears Without a Clear Cause
In the days leading up to my first appointment, I spent hours sitting at the dining table at home, staring blankly into space. I was caught between a sense of relief at being released from intense pressure and a deep unease about having let go of work that mattered to me. Unable to reconcile those feelings, I felt utterly at a loss.
As I sat there, tears began to fall, without warning and without any clear reason.
Ever since childhood, I had lived with a persistent sense of frustration — a quiet but constant feeling of “why must it be this way?” It was as though I had spent my life clenching something tightly inside my chest, never allowing myself to let go.
In that moment, it felt as if the reservoir that had held all those unspoken frustrations for so long had finally overflowed.
How to Describe My Symptoms at a Psychiatric Clinic — Speaking Honestly About My Distress
Although I spent those days wrapped in a sense of emotional exhaustion, one question stayed with me.
I kept wondering what I should say — and how I should say it — at a psychiatric clinic. It was my first visit, and the uncertainty made me anxious.
For most people, the process is straightforward. If you suddenly develop a high fever or a sore throat, you visit your GP and are prescribed medication or pain relief. If you have a toothache, you go to the dentist.
But what, exactly, are you meant to say at a psychiatric clinic? How do you explain what is wrong? Where does it hurt — and in what way — when the pain is not physical?
At the time, I felt as though I were being overwhelmed by waves of intense indignation, sadness, and anxiety. Because of this, I found myself unable to focus not only on work, but on everyday life itself. Yet I had no idea what kind of treatment might exist for symptoms like these.
After much hesitation, I decided to speak plainly about what had been happening at my workplace, and about the emotions and distress I had experienced at each stage. It was the only approach I could think of.
“You’re in a Severe State” — A Psychiatrist’s Words That Loosened My Heart
During my first consultation, as the psychiatrist began his questions, tears started to flow before I realised what was happening. I was taken aback by myself — crying continuously in front of someone I had only just met.
Dabbing my eyes with a handkerchief, I spoke about the events I had experienced at work over the past several years.
At one point, the doctor pressed a little further, asking about the specific words and actions of my direct manager. In that instant, her voice and facial expressions surged back into my mind. I felt myself on the verge of breaking down completely. I lowered my gaze and struggled to hold it together, but my throat tightened, and I found myself unable to respond to his question at all.
Watching this unfold, the psychiatrist said quietly, almost to no one in particular:
“You’re in a severe state. Even recalling it is painful for you.”
The moment I heard those words, I felt a subtle but unmistakable lightness in my chest. For the first time, I recognised that my suffering had taken on a tangible form — that it was something real, something that could be named. More than that, having my condition described by a third party led me to an instinctive realisation: perhaps the way I had been perceiving myself was distorted.
Looking back now, I see that moment as the true beginning of everything that followed. From then on, when speaking with doctors or counsellors, I gradually developed a habit of observing my own emotions and words from a slight distance.
During my period of rest, I would come to understand, little by little, that this capacity for self-observation was essential to the process of cognitive restructuring.
At the end of the appointment, the doctor asked,
“What would you like to do from here?”
“I want to rest,” I replied.
It was a genuine answer — one that came straight from the depths of my heart.
