Ghosts of the Past and Mental Health Week
I graduated from high school in 1984, thirty years ago this year. A Facebook group was recently set up to act as a focal point to coordinate a thirty year reunion for the class of 1984.
The group's main activity to date has been to pull together a list of names from our year and tick off those that were contactable. I've been following this discussion for a couple of weeks and last night, for the first time, a number of former classmates were moved to a "no longer with us" list.
It shouldn't be particularly surprising that, thirty years after we left school, a couple of us have dropped off the perch, particularly in a group that numbered over 200 (from memory!).
I'm not quite sure why Alex's death has been such a shock to me, but of the half dozen or so names that were mentioned last night, his was the one that stung. He was never a great friend of mine, a bit of an outsider, like me, I guess. He came to the school from a far-flung suburb, raked in by the "Academic Talent Program", or ATP as it was known at school. Identified for his particular academic gifts, he was advanced a year, a 16 year old among 17 year old year 12 students by the end of our final year.
So, out of curiosity, I googled his name, appended with the word "obituary". One result. The Coroner's report into his death in 2004. All twenty-seven pages of it.
How, shortly after completing year 12, he'd been taken ill, preventing him from realising the promise of his academic talents in a University career. Then about 18 months later, he was finally diagnosed with Schizophrenia.
I've only ever read a Coroner's report once before, earlier this year, after the death of my Aunt. This report was a different beast entirely, however. It was like reading the story of Alex's life, of his long, slow decline, of the constant strains on his family, always concerned for his welfare. You can only imagine, in their grief, that there must have been a feeling of relief at his final release, and you can also imagine their guilt at feeling that way.
In his last days, Alex was an involuntary patient at a mental health facility. In spite of his involuntary status, patients were free to leave the facility so long as they checked back in at predetermined times, as he'd done many times before. On the day of his death, Alex left the facility and called his Mum, telling her they were trying to kill him and refusing to return. When her attempts to find him accommodation failed and since she lived several hundred kilometres away, he wandered the streets and finally threw himself off a building, falling 11 metres to the ground and sustaining the injuries that killed him later that evening, in hospital.
The Coroner postulated that he may have been induced to jump either as a result of delusional thoughts or simply as a result of the realisation that life wouldn't get any better from here and, most likely, would get worse.
Goodbye Alex, ten years late, but heartfelt nonetheless.
* * *
On another note, the college where I work is putting on a sausage sizzle this week to mark Mental Health Week and to raise awareness about mental illness. Ironic then that the coordinator of this event has abused one of my colleagues for having the gall to ask questions about the requirements for the event. Why ironic? Because the colleague he abused has a fairly severe anxiety disorder and Mr Coordinator's abuse sent him into a complete tailspin. Well done, you!
The group's main activity to date has been to pull together a list of names from our year and tick off those that were contactable. I've been following this discussion for a couple of weeks and last night, for the first time, a number of former classmates were moved to a "no longer with us" list.
It shouldn't be particularly surprising that, thirty years after we left school, a couple of us have dropped off the perch, particularly in a group that numbered over 200 (from memory!).
I'm not quite sure why Alex's death has been such a shock to me, but of the half dozen or so names that were mentioned last night, his was the one that stung. He was never a great friend of mine, a bit of an outsider, like me, I guess. He came to the school from a far-flung suburb, raked in by the "Academic Talent Program", or ATP as it was known at school. Identified for his particular academic gifts, he was advanced a year, a 16 year old among 17 year old year 12 students by the end of our final year.
So, out of curiosity, I googled his name, appended with the word "obituary". One result. The Coroner's report into his death in 2004. All twenty-seven pages of it.
How, shortly after completing year 12, he'd been taken ill, preventing him from realising the promise of his academic talents in a University career. Then about 18 months later, he was finally diagnosed with Schizophrenia.
I've only ever read a Coroner's report once before, earlier this year, after the death of my Aunt. This report was a different beast entirely, however. It was like reading the story of Alex's life, of his long, slow decline, of the constant strains on his family, always concerned for his welfare. You can only imagine, in their grief, that there must have been a feeling of relief at his final release, and you can also imagine their guilt at feeling that way.
In his last days, Alex was an involuntary patient at a mental health facility. In spite of his involuntary status, patients were free to leave the facility so long as they checked back in at predetermined times, as he'd done many times before. On the day of his death, Alex left the facility and called his Mum, telling her they were trying to kill him and refusing to return. When her attempts to find him accommodation failed and since she lived several hundred kilometres away, he wandered the streets and finally threw himself off a building, falling 11 metres to the ground and sustaining the injuries that killed him later that evening, in hospital.
The Coroner postulated that he may have been induced to jump either as a result of delusional thoughts or simply as a result of the realisation that life wouldn't get any better from here and, most likely, would get worse.
Goodbye Alex, ten years late, but heartfelt nonetheless.
* * *
On another note, the college where I work is putting on a sausage sizzle this week to mark Mental Health Week and to raise awareness about mental illness. Ironic then that the coordinator of this event has abused one of my colleagues for having the gall to ask questions about the requirements for the event. Why ironic? Because the colleague he abused has a fairly severe anxiety disorder and Mr Coordinator's abuse sent him into a complete tailspin. Well done, you!