Almost twenty years ago, when I was working at a private school in Montreal, I was approached by a bearded fellow wearing a name tag. It was the first day of school for staff, and that's what our school did with their new teachers so that older staff members could learn the names of newcomers more easily. I was not exactly the life of the party either, but there was something unusual about this fellow. We exchanged a few forgettable words that were probably interrupted by the more familiar sight of someone who I had not seen all summer long.
A few weeks later I saw him again on his way to the metro. He was carrying what seemed like a heavy schoolbag in each hand. "You sure bring home a lot of work," I commented. He mentioned that he had taken on an extra course; effectively it amounted to 2 or 3 periods beyond the normal workload. It did not seem to me like a recommended option for a first year teacher.
A few days after that short conversation, I met him again while waiting for the train. He asked me, "What do you do when you get home to relax?" It seemed like a random question, but I obliged and shared with him my habit of downing a beer with cashews. "Beer and cashews," he repeated with a glazed look. "Yeah," I said. "You should try it." Maybe a month later, I met him again while trying to mentally calculate if I was sitting at one of the foci below an elliptical roof of the metro station. It seemed like the conversation of people on the other side was being amplified because no matter where the sound waves bounced off, they all traveled the same distance as they reached me, and so the waves were all arriving in phase.
"I heard that a lot of people kill themselves in the metro," he uttered in a flat tone.I did not know what to make of his comment and merely pointed out that many subway-suicide attempts were unsuccessful; they resulted in crippling injuries. It seemed like news to him, and I left at that. I don't think we said anything to each other afterwards.
Not more than two weeks passed. In the locker room after school, I arrived in the middle of an emotional conversation between the principal of our school's French sector and a colleague. The fellow with two school bags had not reported to work for a few days. His brother had been called. After opening his sibling's apartment door, he found him on the living room floor. The young teacher had fatally shot himself. I was devastated. Recounting what he had told me in the subway, I shared my story with the principal a lifetime after the fact.
A few weeks later I saw him again on his way to the metro. He was carrying what seemed like a heavy schoolbag in each hand. "You sure bring home a lot of work," I commented. He mentioned that he had taken on an extra course; effectively it amounted to 2 or 3 periods beyond the normal workload. It did not seem to me like a recommended option for a first year teacher.
A few days after that short conversation, I met him again while waiting for the train. He asked me, "What do you do when you get home to relax?" It seemed like a random question, but I obliged and shared with him my habit of downing a beer with cashews. "Beer and cashews," he repeated with a glazed look. "Yeah," I said. "You should try it." Maybe a month later, I met him again while trying to mentally calculate if I was sitting at one of the foci below an elliptical roof of the metro station. It seemed like the conversation of people on the other side was being amplified because no matter where the sound waves bounced off, they all traveled the same distance as they reached me, and so the waves were all arriving in phase.
"I heard that a lot of people kill themselves in the metro," he uttered in a flat tone.I did not know what to make of his comment and merely pointed out that many subway-suicide attempts were unsuccessful; they resulted in crippling injuries. It seemed like news to him, and I left at that. I don't think we said anything to each other afterwards.
Not more than two weeks passed. In the locker room after school, I arrived in the middle of an emotional conversation between the principal of our school's French sector and a colleague. The fellow with two school bags had not reported to work for a few days. His brother had been called. After opening his sibling's apartment door, he found him on the living room floor. The young teacher had fatally shot himself. I was devastated. Recounting what he had told me in the subway, I shared my story with the principal a lifetime after the fact.
Mental health issues are a roll of the dice. There is some chance he would have been anti-social and morose forever, there is some chance he would have gotten over it, but there is no chance taking action based on his behavior was going to save him if he did not want to be saved. If there were a formula for fixing or saving people with mental health issues, the field would be a lot more credible than it is.