Emily’s Story: Revealing My Diagnosis At Work

For years I hid the fact that I blank out during commutes, can feel myself dissolve in meetings and have trouble navigating the office because I don’t have complete control of my body. But why was I trying so hard to keep my DPDR a secret at work?

I’ve had DPDR since the age of twelve. It took a lot of therapy, medication and self-reflection to come to terms with it. It also took a lot of job hopping. I won’t blame DPDR entirely for my lengthy CV, but it does tend to make me feel restless, as if an impulsive change will somehow reset my brain and help me to think ‘clearly’ again.

I was also unsure how much of my true self to reveal at work, so I revealed nothing, which ultimately made me feel so uncomfortable I wanted to leave. I would imagine the looks on my colleagues’ faces as, while making a round of tea, I casually mentioned that I feel perpetually distressed in my own skin and am unable to think straight. It didn’t seem like the qualities of a person who would get invited out to drinks after work, let alone promoted.

But a few years ago I found a job I loved. I was tired of masking who I really was, so I made the decision to tell my manager I have DPDR. No more running away, it was time to settle down in my career.

I was confident at first, but as I explained my symptoms, my manager gave me a confused look. They then asked some questions I wasn’t prepared for. 

“Why haven’t I heard of this before?”
“Do you have an official diagnosis from a doctor?” 
“Does that mean you want to do less work, or have more time off?” 
“What do you want from me?”

That last one really stumped me. What did I want to get out of telling them? Attention? Sympathy?

Embarrassed, I quickly wrapped up the conversation and never mentioned it again. Of course, my DPDR worsened, and I realised it wasn’t the dream job I had thought it was. When I handed in my notice, I felt like a failure.

I had absolutely no intention of telling anyone I had DPDR in my next job, but then…it kinda slipped out. I tried to pretend I hadn’t said anything, but then I got chatting about mental health and I ended up telling even more people. It was like a door had been opened.

The reaction from my colleagues was extraordinary. I was asked a few thoughtful questions, but mostly they offered support. A lot of my colleagues hadn’t heard of DPDR before, but some had experienced it themselves or knew people who had. 

These conversations didn’t cure me of DPDR or affect my job in any way. And neither should they have. What they did was strengthen the relationships I formed with people I was spending seven hours a day with, all while helping me to feel comfortable being me. 

Revealing a mental health diagnosis isn’t a call for attention, a request for special treatment, nor a cry for help. DPDR is a part of who I am and how I experience the world, and there doesn’t need to be a reason or a consequence for opening up about it.