This blog is Mel's fault

Histrionic moments

Month: November, 2013


Today I saw a Vine in which the creator explained that she “vines” because it helps her deal with her depression and severe anxiety. The way she said it, I got it. However, as it played over and over again I noticed she mentioned she has been “diagnosed” with depression and severe anxiety. 

Some days, I feel like that is what I am lacking : a diagnosis. 

I don’t hide that I see a shrink because, as previously established, I don’t think people should. Very few people ask me why, but when they do I explain I have anxiety and insecurities that I have trouble dealing with, which is one way to put it. “It” however, is a almost constant pain in my chest, nightmares and fitful nights for months, the inability to hold back tears in public many times a day and every once in a while the idea and the desire to just give up (yes, I mean suicide). But without a diagnosis, I get the feeling people just label me as emotionally unstable. I am, I’m not saying the opposite, but most days it feels like so much more than that. I have spent the last year in a generalized feeling of discomfort. Imagine it as a day-in, day-out buzzing sound, annoyingly humming that you are not okay. This is more than an over-emotional drama queen situation. Still, without a psychiatric evaluation, I am under the impression people don’t take my situation seriously. Which makes it hard for me to take it seriously and that leads to me neglecting it and beating myself up over having a self-pity party. 

I know only psychiatrists can give the kind of diagnosis I am looking for. I am simply shocked to realize that I may want one, simply to “allowed” to take my issues seriously. 



Deserved but oh-so-risky study break

Dear Mel, 

First of all HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! 

I’m obviously supposed to be studying, but some girl just posted that she’s going to be blogging about her life for the next three hundred and sixty five days and I thought to myself “Well I doubt my life is interesting enough to write about every single day, but once in a while I do have something interesting to say.”

You like you’re having a blast on exchange, which makes me really happy. As you know, my experience with overseas studies had its ups and downs, though at the moment I miss it dearly. Then again, the Bar school is so bad I probably half miss calculus. 

As much fun as you are having the (sad for you, happy for me) fact is that you are to come home  soon. So today, I’m going to tell you about my coming home experience. 

As you might know, I had to spend a night in Paris before my plane took off the next morning. My wonderful mother had booked a hotel room for me at the Sheraton in Charles-de-Gaulle airport. I finally got there, with my four bags, which I got brought up to the room, and got on the elevator. What happened next brought tears to my eyes.

You see, airport hotels are often used by captains or flight crew members on odd schedules, who are possibly horrible jet-lagged and need to sleep so they can function properly on their next shift. This hotel was designed specifically for the purpose. The lights in all the hallways are dimmed and shaped like stars. The floors are carpeted and the rooms are laid out in an oval shape. And all these features contribute to the most important aspect of this jewel of a hotel : silence. 

The elevator doors opened and all was so quiet, it took my breath away for a second. Then actual tears came to my eyes. When you live in a dorm you partially hate because of the rude french staff, for forget just how amazing silence is. 

Obviously, my room was amazing, even when you consider everything is after 4 months in a dorm. 

I went back to the lobby, where everyone seemed happy to be on Christmas holidays, to talk to my mother for a bit. She bore bad news : the power had been out for a few days now due to a snowstorm and it was unclear where Christmas was going to be held and wether or not we would even get a tree (you know how much this matters to me). But I was just so happy to finally be coming home that it didn’t matter. My mother was trying to sugarcoat it, but she really didn’t need to. I kept telling her they’re would be other Christmases (a reasoning I doubt I will ever have again). 

Early, the next morning, early (not bright and early because it was like 4 in the morning) I awoke like it was actually Christmas morning, that’s how excited I was. 

It took me forever to get to the terminal, I was sweating like Marie-Pier doing hot yoga and I had to take stuff out of my suitcases three times, but I finally got to the waiting area. I found out I’d lost my SIM card and spent the rest of the time internally laughing at the french people in Canada Goose coats and shoes. (I mean, not matter how hot your coat is, you’re going to be unhappy if your feet are freezing and wet, just saying.) 

The flight back went by fast enough. When we started approaching Montreal and the plane turned so we could see the ground and the snow upon it, my eyes filled up with tears. That’s actually the moment I cried the most, right there on the plane, seeing the brown suburbs with white spots all over. We landed and the captain announced the temperature was minus 9, which resulted in a general “Oh, that’s not so bad” from the passengers which was quickly followed by a cry of horror when it was announced that with the windshield it felt like minus 17. The lady next to me could not figure out why that made me cheer. 

The rest is simple enough. I found my luggage and my parents. They took me home and the power came back just in time for Christmas eve. 

So here’s to hoping you’re homecoming will be as wonderful as mine. 

Take care. 




After months of absence, for my big return to the blog world (because Bar School world is the worst I have found), I had six hundred words about the silence that shadows mental illness. I wanted to expose the silliness of consulting professionals in every other aspect of life and especially when it comes to our health. Then this lovely boy, Kevin Breel, made all those angst filled words into one home-hitting sentence during a TED talk : “We are so, so, so accepting of any body parts breaking down, other than our brains… That ignorance has created a world that doesn’t understand depression, that doesn’t understand mental health.” 

I couldn’t have said it better myself… and I did try. 

Well screw it, Clara Hugues says “Let’s talk” and now I’m gonna. 

The first problem is the one so wonderfully stated above. We ignore mental health problems like a hangover that is going to to away in a day or so, depending on how old you are. Then, maybe, we try to work on them ourselves. 

But would you try to remove a tooth with an infected root on your own? 

No, and no one would blame you. 

Which brings us to the second problem. Once you accept the fact that your mind is one of, if not the most important part of your body and person and that it therefore deserves the help of a specialist just like any other part of your body and once you find said specialist, you feel like you can’t tell. Like people will look at you funny for not trying to fix something you just can’t fix on your own. Even if they don’t, I always feel like I am making people uncomfortable. They probably are, which is understandable because as Mr. Breely so accurately said : We don’t understand. 

So this is my humble attempt at being one more voice, trying to shout over the shaking in my voice caused by my anxiety, through the heat and sweat it also brings on, one more voice urging anyone who will listen to realize how we must open a dialogue about mental health.