The first time I thought I had a brain tumour, I’d had a headache for two days and gone on a WebMD spiral. I’ve never been a headache person, but I am a serial worrier, which means that the symptom checker has a permanent seat on my list of most visited websites. Most of the time, I stop feeling stressed because my symptoms disappear before I even realise they’re gone. But this was different.

Over the next few weeks, my headaches ebbed and flowed but never totally stopped. What scared me more was that half of my face felt numb – kind of like a dentist had injected me with local anaesthetic and it was slowly starting to wear off.

I ran my symptoms through as many checkers as I could find and started cross-referencing the most common results. Some kind of neurological condition seemed inevitable.

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.

As I live in Dubai, all healthcare is private. In this case, it was a major perk as I received my MRI results in a matter of hours. I waited for them in the hospital until I was called back to my neurologist’s office, where she smiled and said, “Congratulations, you have a beautiful, healthy brain.”

I went home elated – but the feeling didn’t last long. If my head was healthy, then why was this happening? The neurologist had suggested that my numbness may be the aura of a migraine, the sensory disturbances that kick in before or during an episode, but I knew the location and nature of my headache wasn’t typical of a migraine.

Two months later, I made a different appointment. My symptoms hadn’t changed, but I had. I was snappy and uninterested in everything. I went to Disneyland – literally the happiest place on earth – and wondered why, even while riding Space Mountain, I always felt like I was a few steps away from actually enjoying myself. It was only when a friend mentioned seeing her psychiatrist that I decided maybe I should, too.

My psychiatrist was approachable but thorough. I cried in the first 10 minutes because I didn’t know what to say other than the fact I felt nothing. I realised I meant that in every sense of the word. My face wasn’t the only thing feeling numb; I hadn’t had a genuine emotion other than stress or nothingness in a long time. In passing, I mentioned the physical symptoms I’d experienced over the past few months. He nodded and carried on.

At the end of my session, he told me I was depressed. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d had depression before, but that was years ago and it hadn’t felt like nothing. I felt too much of everything, and ‘everything’ was always negative. When I explained this, convinced he’d got it wrong, he nodded again and prescribed me antidepressants.

I had taken antidepressants before. Last time, I’d taken Sertraline – an SSRI (selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor) that increases the production of serotonin, a hormone that regulates your mood. Now, my psychiatrist thought I’d respond better to Bupropion, which restores the balance of dopamine and norepinephrine (the chemicals responsible for pleasure and motivation) in your brain.

Sertraline had dulled the sadness that ravaged me through my late teens. This time, it was like Bupropion was slowly waking me up, but I didn’t notice until my next check-up. My psychiatrist was delighted with my progress and asked about my headaches and numbness. Shocked, I realised they’d improved, too. How had something I obsessed over for months disappeared so quietly?

My psychiatrist noticed my surprise and explained that the physical effects of depression are, like the condition itself, unpredictable. “Some people get headaches,” he said. “Some people don’t.” When I asked why nobody had suggested depression as the cause before, he shrugged and said, “General practitioners don’t think about this stuff.”

While I don’t like to think about the months I wasted mourning my life while it went on without me, I also make a concerted effort not to feel too guilty. Depression is so prevalent is because it’s sneaky. It can manifest in ways you don’t even imagine, with the NHS listing everything from aches and pains to constipation and low sex drive as symptoms.

If anything good came out of this experience, it’s that I’ve witnessed firsthand just how complex and powerful my brain can be. It’s technically me, but it’s not always on my side; it can spot cracks in my defences before I even know they exist, and has no qualms in taking me to the darkest places imaginable. Considering my past experiences, I thought I had a pretty good understanding of depression. Now I know that there is no one way to experience mental illness – and that in itself feels like a start.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, you can find support and resources on the mental health charity Mind’s website and NHS Every Mind Matters or access the NHS’ list of mental health helplines and services.

If you are struggling with your mental health, you can also ask your GP for a referral to NHS Talking Therapies, or you can self-refer.

For confidential support, you can also call the Samaritans in the UK on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. In a crisis, call 999.

Images: courtesy of Chloë James