The general consensus among faculty and professionals at UBC is that the Rhodes Committee is comprised of conservative, cigar-smoking old men who toe the status quo. I actually had no problem with this in the beginning, because stuffy European males did establish the canon of my department, after all. My dissent started when I realized that in their eyes -- and probably the eyes of a whole lot of other people in this world -- my body disqualifies me, taints my work, and casts doubt on anything I do.
Fine, Mr. Rhodes. I was anorexic. It lasted about five months, and you'd probably be disappointed to find out that I made a full recovery and want to apply to your scholarship fund. I couldn't do this all openly, of course; the drugs came without a prescription, the faculty change was written away as a private revelation of the sort that university students are prone to, and if people talked, they did it on their own time and behind my back.
I hate that I have to hide that I'm on antidepressants. I hate sticking good people in tough places, like the doctor at the walk-in clinic where I got my certificate of health; I hate having to leave a paper trail as carefully as possible so I don't carry the stigma of mental illness wherever I go (or apply). I hate being prejudged, and I hate the fact that I'm not even more; it's like I'm shirking some perverse responsibility. Despite my skin, my gender, anything else about me, nothing has ever trapped me as much as this little aspect of my health. If this is what being queer is like, I have not given enough credit to the gay rights movement or the feminists.
No matter how well I perform, that will always stain everything I do. A doctor lied for me today. He knew about the drugs, and the possibility of past depression. I don't know if he knew he was lying -- did he suspect, or plan this? -- but he made it very clear how strong the stigma of depression is in these parts; he was eager, if anything, to give me the documents I needed to live a productive, normal life. I'm probably over-analyzing this, thanks to those ethics chats we've been having in my Academic Integrity presentations, but I can't shake my conscience on this one. If I can't play ball according to the rules, and playing ball with my own rules will get me nowhere, what the heck am I supposed to do with this ball I paid $50 for?
My experience with depression and anorexia shapes everything I want to do, and everything I find worth doing. Being a peer educator isn't just having a cool place to heat my lunch, it's one of the few ways I can fight back against everything driving women (children!) down that path and that bloody stigma surrounding mental health. This is start to write like a personal statement, which isn't surprising. (I'm already on draft 13, and am no close to applying to law school than I was before. Anyone with recommendations for schools with strong human rights and constituational law programmes, please post!)
The pill I take in the morning is so small, I can swallow it without water or even saliva. I don't really think I need it, but I keep with it because I know what could happen if I stop prematurely. I'll turn into this other-me, this person who cannot live with people but is even worse with herself. It's not me, but if the secret's out -- and I did try to "out" it today -- it will be the me others see. It's not right, and it's not fair.
But then again, life isn't fair, is it?
Fine, Mr. Rhodes. I was anorexic. It lasted about five months, and you'd probably be disappointed to find out that I made a full recovery and want to apply to your scholarship fund. I couldn't do this all openly, of course; the drugs came without a prescription, the faculty change was written away as a private revelation of the sort that university students are prone to, and if people talked, they did it on their own time and behind my back.
I hate that I have to hide that I'm on antidepressants. I hate sticking good people in tough places, like the doctor at the walk-in clinic where I got my certificate of health; I hate having to leave a paper trail as carefully as possible so I don't carry the stigma of mental illness wherever I go (or apply). I hate being prejudged, and I hate the fact that I'm not even more; it's like I'm shirking some perverse responsibility. Despite my skin, my gender, anything else about me, nothing has ever trapped me as much as this little aspect of my health. If this is what being queer is like, I have not given enough credit to the gay rights movement or the feminists.
No matter how well I perform, that will always stain everything I do. A doctor lied for me today. He knew about the drugs, and the possibility of past depression. I don't know if he knew he was lying -- did he suspect, or plan this? -- but he made it very clear how strong the stigma of depression is in these parts; he was eager, if anything, to give me the documents I needed to live a productive, normal life. I'm probably over-analyzing this, thanks to those ethics chats we've been having in my Academic Integrity presentations, but I can't shake my conscience on this one. If I can't play ball according to the rules, and playing ball with my own rules will get me nowhere, what the heck am I supposed to do with this ball I paid $50 for?
My experience with depression and anorexia shapes everything I want to do, and everything I find worth doing. Being a peer educator isn't just having a cool place to heat my lunch, it's one of the few ways I can fight back against everything driving women (children!) down that path and that bloody stigma surrounding mental health. This is start to write like a personal statement, which isn't surprising. (I'm already on draft 13, and am no close to applying to law school than I was before. Anyone with recommendations for schools with strong human rights and constituational law programmes, please post!)
The pill I take in the morning is so small, I can swallow it without water or even saliva. I don't really think I need it, but I keep with it because I know what could happen if I stop prematurely. I'll turn into this other-me, this person who cannot live with people but is even worse with herself. It's not me, but if the secret's out -- and I did try to "out" it today -- it will be the me others see. It's not right, and it's not fair.
But then again, life isn't fair, is it?
