My grandmother died two years ago. Actually, she didn’t just die, she committed suicide. My grandmother had been sick for many years, but no one realized it. Her life had been one long mental torment, but in Trinidad, mental illnesses are not taken to be real problems; no one reads the signs and no one cares until it is too late.
Her mother died when she was very young. At the age of 14, in an arranged marriage, she wed my grandfather, not because she wanted to but because he had shoes and a car. My grandfather was not the best of husbands; he regularly came home drunk and left her for a while to live with another woman. Before this she endured the death of her first two children. When she gave birth to my uncle she was suffering from post-partum depression. She tried to throw him out of a window, only to be stopped in time by a neighbor.
To add to her difficulties, her brother-in-law murdered her sister. After this, my grandfather returned, and she took him back, even treating his outside child with kindness. Unfortunately, by this time she was definitely suffering from severe mental stress, she became very ill and was taken to a psychologist. The treatment worked and everyone assumed all was well.
About 20 years later the sickness returned with a vengeance, but none of us knew why. This was arguably the best time in my grandmother’s life. Her children had become very well off, and she no longer had to live in poverty. My grandfather was a changed man, and he no longer drank or womanized. But it was too late; she had lived with this disease for more than 50 years, and it was starting to get the better of her. She became very ill once more and was put on medication. My grandmother hated her medicine, she hated the side effects and she didn’t understand why, at 70 years old, she was being forced to take all of this.
When I first heard the news of her death I couldn’t comprehend it, and I don’t know if I can even now. Apparently other people didn’t understand either, because the old ladies at her funeral kept talking about how “the devil made her do it.” Thankfully, more awareness of psychological problems exists in the United States than in Trinidad. According to the President of Open Minds, Katie Hard (COL ’04), however, there is still a stigma attached to such mental health here. On college campuses, like everywhere else, people don’t like to talk about it. This is a shame, because suicide is the third leading cause of death among people aged 15 to 24. Open Minds aims to increase awareness of mental health issues on campus, make people feel more comfortable with discussing the subject and better at reading the signs. Their first big project was Mental Health Awareness Week two weeks ago.
The problem, Hard says, is that no one wants to admit to themselves or others that they are mentally ill. Friends don’t feel comfortable bringing the subject up or just choose to ignore the signs. We cannot afford to do that, however, because one out of every five people at some point in their lives will suffer from depression. This is a disease that can be treated, and 80 to 90 percent of people recover to some extent. Georgetown offers several resources to students in difficulty including the Office of Student Health Education and Counseling and Psychiatric Services. Still, more needs to be done to make students aware of what is available to them. These offices need to be easier for students to access and approach.
Eventually, Hard hopes to hold counseling support sessions with professionals for those who, like myself, have suffered the effects of mental illness on their lives. Despite the hush-hush attitude of students toward mental health, most of us have experienced anguish. It would be tremendously healing if we could all get together and talk. Although it has taken me over two years to get to this point, I cannot think about it, write about it or speak about it without tears welling in the back of my eyes. I am unsure about whether I want thousands of strangers reading about one of the most personal aspects of my life, but this is something I have to do because I refuse to live in shame anymore with this disgrace.
My grandmother was an amazing woman. When I think of her, I remember her wonderful sense of humor and the fact that she never complained. But ignorance is the greatest enemy. It was only after my grandmother died that my family and I discovered she had a classic case of manic depression – if only we had known sooner. I blame only myself; do not let the same thing happen to you. Educate yourself and if you think someone you know is suffering from depression, do not be afraid to speak up. You have nothing to lose but the life of someone you love.
Maryam Mohamed is a freshman in the School of Foreign Service and can be reached at mohamedthehoya.com. Window to My World appears every other Friday.
