It Was My Job to Help Save Lives—I Didn't Recognize My Own Symptoms

Growing up, our family lived in the housing projects in New York for years without speaking a word of English. For work, my mom sewed beads and pearls on couture wedding dresses before coming home to feed and bathe, us only to leave for her second part-time job of weaving wigs.

My dad attended college while working at a men's manufacturing company. I was 7 years old and responsible for taking care of my younger sister, 5, and my brother, 3. We learned early on that education was the key to a life of independence and to never take anything you had not earned.

This hard work mentality, coupled with appreciation is likely one of the reasons I had initial optimism when the COVID-19 pandemic arose. At that point, I had been a nurse for 43 years with a background in trauma intensive care units and emergency rooms.

However, this hope was short-lived as I came home from work crying each day before the end of March 2020. A switch was turned on—or maybe in my case "off"—as I endured days of utter chaos. I'd never made as many trips to the morgue as I did in the pandemic's first three to four months. This took its toll on me.

In September of that year, I finally spoke with my doctor about my struggle. I was working 14-16 hour days and still found it difficult to leave the hospital, even sitting in the parking lot before going home. Falling asleep felt impossible, but when it finally came, I'd inevitably endure a COVID-related nightmare. My doctor told me I was suffering from PTSD.

The doctor's office became a trigger for me, and I soon stopped going. Even food triggered me, as nearly everything reminded me of food on a patient's tray. I lost 56 pounds. Occasions like birthday parties, graduations, and holiday celebrations were reminders of the patients who'd died and could no longer enjoy these events.

I continued to deteriorate over the next two years, but the worst nightmare of all came in March of 2022 when I dreamt that I had to sleep in the morgue. This was the last straw. I knew I had to stop going to the morgue.

I wept each morning upon waking up and struggled with basic tasks including just getting out of bed to shower. The anger, shame, and guilt were all-consuming and I knew my life was dependent on fixing this.

In addition to costing me enjoyment of life's moments, my sleep, and overall happiness, the pandemic also cost me my career. I decided to retire.

It took two years to see that my symptoms were from the combination of depression and PTSD, but amid a storm, it can be difficult to see your way out.

My depression stemmed from the persistent feeling that we'd let the public down. I felt a sense of responsibility for what I'd seen and lived in a constant state of mourning. I began medication in September 2020 and over the next two years, I unsuccessfully tried seven different antidepressants. I also tried eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) and talk therapy twice a week, but nothing worked.

My psychiatrist finally ordered a DNA test and found that none of the seven medications were right for me which led to my current prescription today, which I am happy to share is effective. This is just one example of how mental health treatment is not a one-size-fits-all approach. But I still wasn't where I wanted or needed to be when it came to my mental health.

A friend of mine was the first to recommend Deep TMS, a noninvasive, FDA-cleared treatment that helps alleviate symptoms related to mental health diagnoses, including depression. I easily found a clinic near me, Relief Mental Health in Oak Brook, Ill. There I started treatment with Dr. Teresa Poprawski, a neuropsychiatrist and expert in TMS therapy.

Everyone's progress is different, and while mine started slowly. I saw minor breakthroughs occur within weeks. They were small at first, including the return of my motivation to take care of basic hygiene. Then I experienced normal thoughts—I was no longer afraid to go outside or into my basement to do laundry.

I still required medication, but I know Deep TMS saved my life—it felt as if it woke up areas of my brain that were dormant for years. I was initially scared I wouldn't qualify, but since it's FDA-cleared, Medicare covered this for me. However, I also appreciate that in some cases patients need to advocate for themselves to find the right treatment and the path is not as smooth, but it is worth the extra effort.

The breakthrough moments grew more meaningful. I began grocery shopping again after avoiding the store because announcements over the intercom reminded me of codes read over the hospital loudspeaker. After avoiding holiday celebrations, I knew I could see the light again when I was able to decorate my home for Christmas. For the two years before beginning Deep TMS, I can't recall hearing birds chirp. The birds began to sing and I once again started gardening.

It is important to know that even if the results are not immediate, it is crucial to persevere. I no longer require maintenance TMS treatments, at least for now. To be transparent, my PTSD still lingers. For example, helicopters can sometimes remind me of a new wave of patients arriving daily at the height of the pandemic—but it is one thing to live with PTSD and another to be possessed by it.

If you are reading this and struggling with a mental health diagnosis, there is nothing to be ashamed of. You are not hopeless or helpless—there are options.

It took years and many unsuccessful treatments, but I eventually found the light on the other side, and now that I've found relief, I feel a deep responsibility to tell my story. My message for others living with a mental health diagnosis is this: Don't lose hope.

Gulden Akdemir, a first-generation Turkish American and single mother who grew up in the tough projects of New York City, had dedicated her life to helping others. For 43 years, she served as a nurse, witnessing the worst humanity had to offer in trauma ICU and ER units near Chicago.

Gulden began to feel better three weeks into trying Deep TMS (transcranial magnetic stimulation) at Relief Mental Health in Oak Brook, IL.

All views expressed are the author's own.

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