CW: This post contains some detailed discussion of a suicidal action, if that’s triggering to you, I suggest skipping ahead to the Mania chapter. Just know that I survived and got out of the hospital (and you can too).
The New Job
When I heard about burnout, I always assumed it was something that could be remedied by a long vacation or switching jobs. I didn’t realize it had higher stages that required more serious interventions. By then I had lived out the social defeat hypothesis firsthand. My brain’s reward system had burned out from humiliation.
I got a new job at an office far from my old one. Everyone was very kind. But I kept re-living instances of humiliation at Amazon. Every time I tried to write code, it was like I was back there being yelled at. To make matters worse, everyone I worked with at this new job was kind and understanding, I didn’t understand why they didn’t treat me like a dog.
I lived in fear of traveling to downtown Seattle for any reason. What if I ran into anti-mentor, or one of his reports? What if they glared at me with the death glare? The thought filled me with terror.
I couldn’t stop thinking about those emails. The way my anti-mentor shut me down so effortlessly. Nobody in my life previously had excelled that much in making me feel small and stupid.
I felt like my career was ruined. I would have a reputation for “playing the race card” and be blacklisted (sorry, blocklisted) from the industry. If it ever came out, everyone would believe my anti-mentor over me.
The worst part is: I think he liked it. I think he liked having that power over me. I think he enjoyed breaking me down until I was a clone of him. He probably just saw it as the natural order of things. Even now I can see his smirk.
A year went by. I collected praise from my team, the managers were talking about promotion, but I was still hurting.
I was hurting so badly, I made a suicide plan.
The Plan
This was a very serious plan. I bought all the supplies for a seamless transition. I said goodbye to friends (in a subtle way), sent my banking and stock portfolio passwords to family so they would be taken care of financially, and I left my door unlocked so my neighbors wouldn’t have to deal with my rotting corpse.
The “lasts” really hit you in that moment. The last apple you’ll ever eat. The last sounds you’ll ever hear. First the hissing of nitrogen gas, then there will be nothing.
I drafted a final Facebook post. I detailed why I was killing myself, the hurt and humiliation I faced at Amazon, and who did it to me.
But I couldn’t bring myself to press send.
After everything my anti-mentor did to me, I still didn’t want to ruin his life, even if I had all the evidence in my favor. I could still imagine a world where he treated me and others with dignity, like equals. I could see that he was hurting and insecure too, and hurt people hurt people. And I could see all the ways I’d hurt people too.
I didn’t post it. I must have hinted at my plan in my goodbyes, because some family flew out to Seattle to check in on me. They got me checked into a healthcare facility. There, I was formally diagnosed with PTSD, and prescribed Zoloft.
I thought things were finally turning around.
I thought Zoloft would help me. It did the opposite.