Health
-1
archive,category,category-health,category-432,wp-custom-logo,wp-theme-bridge,bridge-core-3.3.4.8,qi-blocks-1.5.2,qodef-gutenberg--no-touch,qode-optimizer-1.2.2,qode-page-transition-enabled,ajax_fade,page_not_loaded,,qode-title-hidden,qode_grid_1300,qode-content-sidebar-responsive,qode-smooth-scroll-enabled,qode-theme-ver-30.8.8.9,qode-theme-bridge,disabled_footer_bottom,qode_header_in_grid,wpb-js-composer js-comp-ver-8.7.3,vc_responsive

It was the last Bank holiday in May, a Monday morning, 8am, and I received a text from one of my closest friends asking if it was okay to call. I got that sinking feeling. Firstly, because close friends don't ask permission to call. Well, not mine anyway - they wake my ass up at all hours for things ranging from nail varnish colours (anyone who knows me knows how ridiculous this is), to juice recipes, needing my AA cover to get towed home or just to say hi. My first thought - are the kids ok? My second - is she? My third - what the fuck's wrong! I don't recall the beginning of the conversation, or if there were any pleasantries or formalities. I don't know if she heard the panic in my voice, that I always try to play down, and is often mistaken for nonchalance, when I really do care. I just remember the softly spoken voice of a usually cheeky and often loud friend saying, "David passed away."

Mental health issues were never unusual to me. In fact, they were pretty normal and still are. When I was seven or eight my cousin attempted suicide and I walked in on her crushing pills into the bathroom carpet. I didn’t know exactly what was happening but I alerted my parents by saying she was "crushing chalk." I never saw my laid-back dad move out of that bed and into the bathroom quicker in my life.

On January 16, 2013 my mother committed suicide. She was 55 years old, just two months shy of her 56th birthday. The suicide was her second attempt in three months following an eleven-month illness that several physicians and specialists failed to correctly diagnosis until eight weeks before her more successful suicide. While her physical illness was rare and particularly aggressive in her case, leaving her struggling with great pain in her last days, it was her mental health condition that contributed to the lack of seriousness in which my mothers’ physicians took her claims of great suffering. You see, 13 years before her death, my mother was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, had been on disability for most of that time, and had a long, well-documented experience working on her illness with mental health professionals throughout her city. She complained of severe physical pains, demonstrating and documenting her symptoms with great specificity to each doctor, desperate to be heard, to be believed, and received in turn the kind of dismissive pats you give a child trying to get out of bedtime.

young-woman-holding-condoms condomlove “A condom is a girl's best friend”. And a man's, agreed? This is the [translated] title of the French ad that has appeared on billboards in Paris since the summer 2009. It is part of the yearly renewed Aids campaign, a continual effort to raise awareness and to promote 'safe sex'. While it seems the need to entertain extends to all matters, so that even awareness about Aids must be inviting and playful, the statistics are a sober reminder that HIV is all but that.