The thing is, for someone who stresses out so much about their health, I’d always had an aversion to doctors, hospitals, or anything that may confirm I am in fact unwell. But as weeks became months, I found myself withdrawing. I couldn’t focus. I started making stupid mistakes with my work. I’d have fun, then sober myself with the reminder that I was probably going to die. My friends or my boyfriend would make future plans, and in my head, I’d respond, “I probably won’t be here, though.”

Eventually, I reached breaking point. My headaches started in February and by May I was probably crying more often than not. I was self-aware enough to recognise I’d become a nightmare to live with, talk to, or even remotely know. Begrudgingly, I made an appointment to see a doctor. My appointment took a grand total of two minutes as he listened to my symptoms, found the nearest neurologist, and told me to get an MRI asap.

By this point, I was so stressed that I didn’t really know how to feel anything else. In some ways, I’d transcended stress and just accepted my fate. I wonder if I’ll be able to get the money back for my flights this summer, I thought as I changed into the gown for my scan. It sucks that I probably won’t be allowed to fly once I start my treatment.

“Constant headaches made me think I had a brain tumour… but I was experiencing the physical symptoms of depression”