I am a person—a person with hopes, dreams, fears, and a favorite color. I am just like anyone else, trying to find my place in this world. Yet you only see me as a nuisance. I am always in your way, you say. I am an idiot. My existence is like a personal insult to you—and you never miss a chance to show it.

I was once a bright-eyed child full of hope, ready to change the world. I stuck my father’s stethoscope to his chest, listening to his heartbeat as he told me I could be anything I wanted to be if I set my mind to it. I had not yet learned how cruel this world can be. I had not yet learned how cruel people can be. I dreamed, and I dreamed. I worked with everything I had to fulfill my dreams, or at least what I thought were my dreams.

I want to ask you: “Do you have a daughter? A sister, maybe?” Imagine someone looking at her with the same disdain you show me. Imagine someone tearing her to pieces like a rabid dog for the fun of it. Does this break your heart?

I am just as much a person as whoever you just thought of. What makes me somehow an exception? I am a human being, just like you, just like her. What makes you blind to this? What have I done? I would readily apologize if you could tell me what I did to make you despise me so much.

I was once a young medical student, full of hope and excitement, as I eagerly recited the Hippocratic Oath. I meant those words with all my heart and felt a deep sense of honor and sincerity as I put on my white coat for the first time. I studied tirelessly, believing it would all be worth it someday. I was excited and intimidated when I went to the hospital for my clinical rotations. But you did not put me at ease.

This is where it began—where the first daggers were plunged through the heart of my self-esteem. You told me I was in the way—I was not supposed to be there. You told me I was an idiot and laughed when I did something incorrectly. I was new—how could I know what to do? Everyone else watched wordlessly—no one ever stopped you. No one ever protected me. I hid in the bathroom so that you could not have the satisfaction of seeing my tears.

I was once an intern physician, eager and excited to make a difference in patients’ lives. “Now that I am a fully-fledged physician, it will be different, right?” I naively told myself. Wrong. I was so wrong. Again, you shouted that I was in your way. I was not supposed to be there. You laughed in my face and told me I was an idiot. You talked down to me. You never let me go a day without forgetting how worthless I was. I learned not to protect myself because it only ever hurt me more. I cried myself to sleep, always dreading the following day when I would have to go through it all over again.

I continued. I pushed through despite it all, hoping that one day it would get better. I worked and worked harder, hoping for your approval. But nothing I ever did made any difference. I could do no right in your eyes, after all. You continued to berate me, calling me an idiot while others looked on silently. Despite it all, I tried to reassure myself: “Things will get better eventually, will they not?” It never got better.

I was once a person.

For years, you told me that I was not, every single day. Now I believe you. The eager little girl with her dad’s stethoscope and the hopeful, bright-eyed medical student passionately reciting the Hippocratic Oath have died. I am what remains, wandering the hospital halls as a soulless zombie, apathy replacing all else. But your words no longer sting because I no longer feel anything at all.

I was once a person.

You win.

The author is an anonymous physician.