It should have been a normal Monday when my alarm went off one February morning. 

But without warning, I couldn’t get dressed due to shaky hands. I couldn’t apply my make-up as my face was wet with tears. My mind was simultaneously blank and racing at breakneck speed. I was having a panic attack, although I didn’t know it at the time. All I knew was that something was wrong and I couldn’t keep doing my job.

I had been at my company since graduating from university over three years prior. I’d had some ups during my time – a quick promotion, development opportunities and made some life-long friends. However, my role had become increasingly unbearable with managerial responsibilities, unrealistic expectations and an unachievable list of endless tasks that spread me too thin. Cries for help were met with deaf ears or vague promises that ‘things will get better’ because ‘changes were coming’. These changes never materialised.

Things worsened last summer when a colleague sexually assaulted me on a night out. I reported it to my manager and the head of HR, just hoping to get him moved away from the desk opposite mine. I was made to feel like the attack was my fault, with the HR chief asking me: “Have you learned your lesson on who you should be friendly to in future?” The traumatic investigation went on for nearly four months, ending only after I complained about being blamed for the assault. The two members of staff were taken off the case and replaced by an external third party.

My manager was cold throughout the duration of the investigation, which included an ambushed interrogation in which every Slack message between me and my attacker leading up to the event was analysed and used against me. Even after my manager was dropped from the investigation, she never attempted to address it with me. Understandably, this caused an irreparable rift in our working relationship. Suddenly, every extra bit of responsibility or workload put on my shoulders felt personal, like a punishment. I couldn’t turn to HR for help as they had already thrown me under the bus. I was alone.

Still, everyone hates their job, right?

That’s what I told myself, that I just needed to get on with it. However, I knew what I was feeling was different from your standard career ennui. The Sunday scaries now took the form of physical shaking, a sickness in the stomach and, more often than not, unstoppable free-flowing tears. I felt my spark and my sense of self diminish with every critical Slack message, every total overhaul of workflow and every lunch break I had to miss due to busyness.

I wanted to quit, and very nearly did on a number of occasions, but I knew I needed to have a job lined up so that I could continue to pay rent on the flat I share with my lovely boyfriend. I had been actively applying for roles for months, but without success. You don’t need me to tell you how bad the job market is. Additionally, I had a very long notice period, which – I was told by a handful of recruiters and companies upon rejection – hurt my chances of being an ideal candidate. The notice period felt like a chain around my neck. I was stuck.

So, fast-forward to that Monday, and the thought of working was completely overwhelming. Uncharacteristically, I called in sick with a migraine. I did the same the next day and the day after that. Following a pep talk from my mum, I anxiously gave my boss a call and explained what was really happening. I was signed off due to stress for the rest of the week, with directions to contact the work GP to figure out the next steps.

I can’t express my relief in knowing that I didn’t have to go to work the next day. I slept better than I had in weeks.

The GP signed me off for another week. Then another. Then another.

It was during this time that I started weekly therapy and was prescribed the antidepressant sertraline. Therapy is one of the best acts of self-love you can ever undertake; I can’t recommend it enough. My counsellor makes me feel seen, heard and understood. She empathises with me, asks questions I have never considered and helps me verbalise what I’ve been feeling.

In one session, it was uncovered that I was suffering from PTSD. Not from the sexual assault itself, but rather from how it was handled by my workplace. This diagnosis really made me think: is my job worth this suffering? How could I possibly go back to the office after realising how much pain their treatment of me has caused?

I confided in a friend who told me about gardening leave, which is essentially when you’re paid in full for the duration of your notice period but without doing any work. He said this could be an option as I would be leaving on health grounds. Surely this was too good to be true, but after speaking to my workplace, I was awarded this very gift.

Leaving my job was the best thing that has ever happened to me. I was genuinely giddy and smiled wider and toothier than I had in months. Suddenly, I was free. Free from the pressures of that toxic workplace, free from the constraints of my notice period, free from the strangled, gasping sensation of feeling stuck. I quit with no plans, but I have months to work out exactly what my next steps are.

Leaving this toxic workplace isn’t enough to heal me mentally, and I understand that I have a long journey ahead of me. I view my gardening leave as a metaphor: I’m sowing seeds, watering them regularly and tending to the weeds in the garden that is my mind. One day, I hope to enjoy the blooms.

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.

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