Shireen Noble

The fact that I’m writing this in bed, curled up with my dog, is sort of ironically appropriate, since that’s how everything almost ended. And yes, I know what I’m risking by telling my story- but it doesn’t seem nearly as steep as not telling it.

Five years ago to the week, I found out my friend Christine had committed suicide. She had just turned 16. I wish I could tell you that this was the first time I realized that there were people struggling with mental health issues. But it definitely wasn’t.

I don’t know how old I was when I first knew there was something wrong with the way I was feeling, but it was probably before I turned 10. Being the first girl in my school with breasts made me an easy target for the bullies. In middle school, it only got worse. I’m not going to go into the details, but what I experienced amounted to torture. But I changed schools when I was 13, and all of that was supposed to get better.

And maybe it did for a little while. But by high school, lows started getting lower. A bad day turned into a bad month, and eventually a bad year. But I kept getting good grades, I kept kicking-ass on the debate team, and I kept on with my daily routine. Eventually, I did ask my doctor for help, and started therapy and medication. Still, every day got a little harder to get out of bed. And as these things tend to happen, a thousand things hit at once: my dad was having health problems, my sister was going through a rebellion that was tearing my parents apart, I had my heart broken for the first time. All the while I was working on Parliament Hill and things looked fine. Finally came the first real breaking point: we had to put my first dog down. That was when I became so desperate that I started cutting myself. That terrified me enough that I had to get some kind of help. But when I went to my doctor, I found out that there was really nothing he could do but try and add some medication while I went on a year-long wait list for a psychiatrist.

To my surprise, things could get worse from there. I started having five panic attacks a day. I was too tired to make it through school. I kept hurting myself. I finally had my mom drive me to the hospital, where I told them that either they did something to help me, or I would do something. They had to help me. They bumped me up on the list.

Fast-forward a little, and it seemed that I was getting better. I mean, I was on the medication that the doctors had recommended, I was seeing the therapist that they wanted me to see, but things weren’t all right. And finally, one Sunday morning in grade 12, I woke up and decided that I couldn’t live like this anymore. So I took a lethal dosage of pills, and curled up in bed with my new dog. Sometime later, my neighbour came by to meet this new dog and my dad tried to take her away from me. At that point I panicked and told him what I had done.

I was unconscious for eight hours. They had to pump my stomach and give me charcoal. My heart came dangerously close to stopping. And then I had to spend the worst two months of my life in as an inpatient in the hospital. I have very little memory of that time, and I’m grateful for that. The psychiatrist there decided that I was simply a spoiled brat, and that my parents couldn’t control me. But here’s the really weird thing: that’s finally what made me decide I was going to get better. I was stubborn enough that I would survive just to prove her wrong.

Not long after leaving the hospital, I found out about Christine’s death. It shook me up, but I wasn’t going to let it stop my life again. So I returned to school for the second semester of my grade 12 year, sat down with my guidance counselor, and was promptly told to “face facts”, that there was no way I was going to graduate. But proving her wrong was another great motivation for getting through things.

It wasn’t easy. There were still medications to be changed, and therapists to see, and the inevitable social consequences of having been so withdrawn that I had no friends. And let’s not forget about the curveballs the universe has to send: three months after Christine, another girl I had been hospitalized with after attempting to commit suicide. And three weeks before graduation, a classmate passed away. But contrary to what my guidance counselor had told me, I graduated. I graduated as an Ontario Scholar, with an extra credit, and with a school letter and a department award.

So why am I telling you this? Because I’m finally far enough away from it that I can. And listening to the recent series CBC has been doing on mental illness, I realized that I can’t stay silent anymore. There are too many people who still can’t get the help that they need because there aren’t enough of us fighting for it.

Being depressed doesn’t mean being crazy. It’s not a sign of personal failure. Asking for help doesn’t mean that you’re not cut out for university, or imply any kind of weakness, or mean that you’re any less of a stellar human being. My story is extreme, but it didn’t have to be- and neither does yours. There are services out there, some of them free to you as University of Guelph students. Use them. And if it doesn’t work out, be willing to try something else. Not every therapist works for everyone, there’s no one-size-fits-all treatment. And unfortunately, there’s no miracle overnight cure. But it will get better.

And to those of you thinking that this isn’t relevant to you: think again. Estimates are that one in five individuals struggle with mental health issues. If someone trusts you enough to disclose their struggles, be there for them. No, you can’t be their doctor or counselor, but knowing that there’s one person out there who recognizes their struggles and wants to help can make a world of difference. It may be the difference between your friend asking a professional for help and deciding to suffer in silence.

As a society, we’re ignored the mental health issues that individuals face. Granted, we hear about the extreme stories of mental illness when tragedies like Jared Loughner, who was responsible for the shootings in Arizona, but we’ve allowed so many other tragedies to just quietly slip by, including the suicide of a Guelph student.

I’m not going to lie: it’s still sometimes a struggle. Until recently, I couldn’t just have a “bad day.” Instead, it turned into panic that things were going to spiral out of control again. I’ve had to give up a lot of bad habits that were hurting me- smoking, drinking, and self-injury. I’ve also had to put a lot of time and energy into getting my life back under my control. It didn’t come right away. And it didn’t come without a fight.

Consider this a call to arms then, consider this a challenge to take up the fight. If we get the election that the parties keep threatening, use the opportunity to ask questions about mental health care. If you think something’s not right with someone you care about, ask the hard questions and be ready to support them. Volunteer your time, your compassion, your voice. But most of all, if you’re reading this and are thinking that maybe you don’t have to struggle the way you’ve been, reach out and ask. Demand if you have to. Use whatever you can to get through this- even if you’re like me and your need to call upon your stubbornness to get you started. I have hope now, I make plans for the future, and I’m ready to share this story. And to steal a line from Dan Savage- it gets better (and then it gets great). But I can assure you that five years ago you wouldn’t have been able to have convince me so.

If you think you may need help, there are tons of resources you can use: Counseling Services, Student Health Services, Student Support Network, your RA (if you’re in residence), and the 24-hour Crisis Line at 519-821-0140. For more information on mental health, you can check out counseling services and the Wellness Centre.

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