I mentioned in my In-Service Training recap that December was a stressful month. I went from full-steam-ahead mid-term workload to sitting around in a hostel wondering what to do with myself; then, after the first week, to being surrounded by other Americans 24/7; and from there to a tightly-scheduled Western-style seminar the likes of which I had not experienced since August. On top of that, one of my best friends was sent home on medical and I started to have a breathing problem from the pollution.
All this is to say, I was alternately quite busy and completely at a loss for what to do with myself, I had a lot on my mind, and I was rather stressed — none of which are particularly helpful if you’re in an anxious frame of mind. I had initially resolved to talk to the doctor about my anxiety at the same time as my lung problem; but when the initial appointment proved unhelpful (re: lungs), I gave up the idea. I almost approached the other doctor when he diagnosed the breathing issue at a second appointment, but I’d had an upsetting two days (because I couldn’t breathe) and couldn’t face an even more upsetting interview.
It wasn’t until after a conversation with a friend, after the seminar, that I finally approached the PCMO. She was having a stressful time, and I recommended that she talk to the doctor about it…and then, with a sort of mental sigh, realized that I couldn’t very well give advice that I wasn’t willing to follow myself. And the doctor’s thorough, on-point response to my asthma problem gave me faith that he would take it seriously.
So I called the office the Tuesday after IST, while I was still in the capital. Thankfully, the doctor I wanted to talk to picked up; when I asked if he was free at all, he invited me to his office.
I went. I sat down in his office and said nothing; he asked what was wrong. “I think I’m having an anxiety problem,” I said in a muted, shaky voice.
At his prompting, I outlined a couple of events from the last few weeks; a few I remembered from the list I’d made (which I had not, in the end, brought with me; it felt like overkill, somehow); and — reluctantly, terrified that it counted as medical nondisclosure even though I’d never been diagnosed or even sought a diagnosis — mentioned that this was something that had been going on since before I’d joined Peace Corps.
The doctor considered this, asked me some questions, and then left me with a small sheaf of paperwork: a series of questionnaires designed to measure symptoms for a variety of mental health problems. “In the last two weeks, on a scale of 0 to 3, how often have you…?” I filled them out quickly, trying to ignore the niggling voice that wondered how on earth a four-point scale covering less than a month’s time could possibly constitute accurate measurement. The doctor came back, took the papers, and tallied my scores.
“This is not that far from average,” he said with some puzzlement. My heart plummeted. I had managed to convince myself to ask for help — had managed to construct a narrative that showed I needed it — but if the numbers said I didn’t…
But, the doctor continued, since this was clearly a problem that had been bothering me for some time, he would put me on the counselor’s list. But it might be a week or so before I heard from her, because he couldn’t label my case as a priority. She might call me by the end of that week or the beginning of the next.
So I went home from the capital straight into the holiday season, at once relieved that there was finally help on the horizon and terrified about what that might mean.
 Failing to share some part of your medical history, for which you can be medically separated (the nice phrase Peace Corps uses in place of ‘fired for medical reasons’).
 I still don’t like these things, even though I’m coming to understand the how and why of them. Every time I have to fill one out my brain screams, “But is 75% of the time a 2 or a 3???”