I feel like Margot Tenenbaum.
If I had a wooden finger, I would tap it all day, smoke cigarettes in the tub behind the locked bathroom door.
My recent phone call with UBC Health Services didn’t offer much hope:
“Hi there, I’ve been waiting to speak to a counsellor since April and haven’t heard back from anyone yet. I would like to see where I am at on the list.”
“Name and student number please”
“Lindsay MacPhee, 50055052”
“Alright Lindsay, well, we still haven’t gotten to April yet and it’ll be about another 2 month wait. But since you’re not returning to UBC in the fall, we will have to take you off the list.”
“That’s not fair, I’ve been waiting this long and don’t have another doctor to go to.”
“I’m sorry about that but there is nothing more I can do.”
“Do you ever wondering how many people have committed suicide while waiting for your service?”
“Good luck with finding another counselling service Ms MacPhee. Goodbye.”
At least on my tombstone they can write something like “She tried to get help but her University killed her.”