Dear Students: At Pomona, we take mental health very seriously. It’s time for me to come clean about my own. Over the last year, I have been struggling with a disease I wouldn’t wish upon anyone—there’s a tiny voice in my head telling me everything I do is wrong! I can’t do anything right! Stupid, Gabi, Stupid!
I’m a neurologist, but I’ve never heard of this condition. My doctors don’t know what it could be either. Part of my treatment has involved lots of therapy–mostly physical. Starting a healthy amount of time after October 8, 2023, when the voice began to appear, I now begin my day with vigorous exercise. I stick my fingers in my ears and shout, “FA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU AAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Even that is not enough. In April this year, the voice got so loud that my strategy of feigning ignorance didn’t suffice. I noticed that when there were students and other visitors in Alexander Hall, the central hub for administration of the college, the voices got worse. “They told me, Gabi, you have to do something! You have to preside, you’re the President” We had to close it, for the sake of the college’s mental health!
I also soundproofed the President’s Office. The Board of Trustees gave me all the funds I needed! Who knew a padded room costs $995,000! That’s my whole salary! Yet even that safety measure wasn’t enough. I can still hear this awful voice.
What is this voice like? Hideous. It sounds like a bad impersonation of me: crude and vengeful. It says all I do is write questionable emails and shake donor hands. When I am at my best—writing uplifting emails to my assistant Christiana (so she can write my emails) or delivering restorative justice—I am neither of those things. But this voice tries to gaslight me into believing it anyway!
The Board of Trustees has been very supportive. When I told them about my problem, they cried out,“Gabi, we’ve got your back!” So, officially, I am still “doing my job.” Unofficially, I am on paid leave in my padded President’s Office. The doctors tell me I am going on “sabbatical” next semester (Johns Hopkins). I hope they put cucumbers over my face like big happy googly eyes! Then the voices will stop saying I turn a blind eye to justice, and I get to eat yummy cucumber slices!
I know I am not alone in this. This is literally true, since most of the deans were also hospitalized for hearing similar voices. They have even named the sounds, like they are imaginary friends – Constance or Conshience or something. It seems like their situation is far worse than mine. It’s very sad—when the nurses ask who the President is, they are convinced its me! What loons!
Back soon, and much love,
Gabi