When Dr. Raper spoke about questions pertaining to how we might talk about suicide, it reminded me of my role as a crisis counselor at the Crisis Text Line. During training, we learn to utilize a ladder-up approach concerning conversations surrounding suicide. Every individual who seeks help from the platform is asked the following questions:

• Are you having thoughts of suicide?
• Do you have a plan for how you would do it?
• Do you have access to the means to carry it out?
• Do you have a time planned for when you would do it?

At first, it felt weird to be asking individuals what their plan was to kill themselves because I thought it would exacerbate thoughts of suicide. However, there is a plethora of data demonstrating that this is not the case. Moreover, as I had more conversations, I realized that these questions instead helped individuals feel like someone was listening to their concerns and not avoiding their immediate troubles. They felt that someone was genuinely helping them through their struggles, rather than being scared to address their concern head-on due to the stigma surrounding mental health issues. Thus, talking about suicide actually reduces suicidal ideation, and enables improvements to be made in treatment. 

Dr. Raper further spoke about self-stigmatization, or the internal shame, that people with mental illness carry within themselves. However, per my experience, within the South Asian community, it seems that mental illness is something viewed as a collective issue, in which the mental illness reflects poorly upon the family, rather than simply the sufferer. A lot of the stigma comes simply from a lack of understanding or fear. 

Furthermore, although there is conflicting evidence, there seems to be a decline in the stigma of mental illness, especially amongst young people. Many of us students are very vocal regarding how we are feeling mentally, yet there seems to be a disconnect between us and the older generation who are in positions of power running mental health departments at academic institutions (as I talked about in my post two weeks ago). 

Similar to Dr. Raper’s points about stigma, there is a need for a safe and trusted environment to speak about mental health. Without such an environment, mental health illness, which was significantly exacerbated during this pandemic, cannot be addressed properly. 

Because of the pandemic, a lot of us saw increases in our own mental health symptoms and conditions, enabling an increase in knowledge on mental health. As a result, I saw a change in mental health stigma at a classroom level after online learning had started. Professors became more agreeable with mental health excuses from class and extensions for assignments for mental health issues–something that professors would often want proof for (I’ve actually had a professor ask for proof that my cousin died my freshmen year when I requested an extension based on my mental health :/) beforehand. 

The universal experiences many of us have shared, coping with the uncertainties of the pandemic–whether baking banana bread, making dalgona coffee, or going on walks–have enabled us to focus on mental health, and, unconsciously or not, reduce the stigma. These shared social connections have further led to increased resilience within our communities and emotional acceptance of others, which is incredibly valuable in an increasingly divided world. 

What do you think could be done to reduce stigma related to mental health issues in academic settings or in the workplace? Because it seems that any attention being brought up about mental health in these settings is due to a fear of a “lack of productivity,” rather than an emphasis on people’s well-being.

I recently read the incredible book Man’s Search for Meaning by psychiatrist and neurologist Viktor Frankl. In the book, Frankl explains the psychotherapeutic field of logotherapy through the lens of his experience in Nazi concentration camps. Both his story and his psychological analysis impacted me tremendously. With the book fresh in my mind as I listened to Dr. Raper’s lecture, I made several connections between logotherapy and mental health during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Logotherapy is an approach that focuses on the future and finding personal meaning in one’s life, even in the face of suffering or hardship. This sense of purpose is different from the broad, cliche “life goal” that I often think of as a college student. Rather, Frankl describes purpose at a smaller scale, arguing that sustaining meaning can be found through the act of creating work, loving someone, or changing one’s attitude towards suffering from futility to persistence.

A large part of our class discussion with Dr. Raper centered around the ideas of helplessness, control, and resilience. We discussed personal strategies for combating feelings of distress and helplessness, such as listening to music or actively practicing gratitude. Turning to these tactics reflect the conscious choice to exert control over one’s emotions and motivations. Rather than giving up all personal agency due to some uncontrollable situation, Frankl would argue that we have the responsibility to exercise the choice to move forward. 

It wasn’t difficult to feel hopeless during the pandemic, particularly in the early months of quarantine when the return to normalcy was nowhere in sight. Many people picked up new hobbies such as baking, sewing, and painting, and these projects to complete were often what fueled people to get out of bed in the morning. We can view this through a logotherapeutic lens, as these “creations of work” were attached to the individual’s daily sense of meaning. Additionally, logotherapy can be used to make sense of attitude changes towards quarantine. The COVID restrictions caused massive disruptions in routine life and led to an abundance of free time, which caused widespread distress and lack of motivation. The idea of “taking advantage” of all this time became the prevalent narrative to get through the emptiness. Now, people had a purpose: try new recipes, learn a new skill, start exercising, listen to that podcast you never had time for, etc.

While I find Frankl’s writing to be very applicable and inspiring, I do struggle with the notion of the simplicity of attitude-shifting. I recognize how significant of a challenge this can be and how reframing one’s situation does not happen overnight. I would love to hear any additional thoughts on this topic.

We’ve spent several weeks in this course discussing the ways in which COVID-19 and HIV are comparable and distinct. While history has repeated itself in a number of ways, I think a notable similarity between these two pandemics is the power that touch (or a lack thereof) has had on either stigmatizing or isolating us.

When the HIV/AIDS epidemic swept across the United States in the 1980s, a variety of misconceptions about the virus came with it. President Reagan’s refusal to acknowledge the epidemic emboldened the stigmatization of the virus. Not only did blatant homophobia play a role in stigmatizing the virus, but misinformation about how it could be transmitted made many fear touching or kissing someone who had it. We’ve discussed in our classes how hospitals didn’t want patients with HIV/AIDS both out of fear for themselves and because they thought other patients would be too afraid to go to a hospital that treated people with HIV. I think we often think of stigma as what people say to disparage others; but the absence of touch, of human connection, can ostracize people just as much. In the early years, people not only had to experience the pain of finding out they had an incurable, and, at the time, life-ending disease, but they also had to face apathy and disgust at every turn. To be treated as if you were contagious by touch is incredibly isolating, stigmatizing, and dehumanizing. This was such a notable aspect of HIV/AIDS that activism surrounding touch became prevalent: for example, Princess Diana was very outspoken about the epidemic, stating, “HIV does not make people dangerous to know. You can shake their hands and give them a hug. Heaven knows they need it. What’s more, you can share their homes, their workplaces, and their playgrounds and toys.”

In 2020, COVID-19 spread throughout the globe, triggering sweeping lockdowns and social distancing mandates. Especially in the early days of COVID, many people were completely isolated within their homes, unable to see or hug their loved ones for months. While touch may not have contributed to stigma the way it did with HIV, it did play a significant role in the isolation and mental health issues many faced during the COVID pandemic. During this time, the US Surgeon General described the US as also experiencing an epidemic of loneliness; combined with the fear of the pandemic, isolation impacted many people’s mental health and ability to cope with uncertainty. I think we all saw how reliant we became on technology during the pandemic, desperately searching for connection, disassociation, or maybe both in social media, television, news, anything. For me, my increased use of technology did nothing to fill the gap of real, human connection. I think something as simple as a hug, a kiss, or a touch reminds us of our humanity, our connection to one another. These pandemics, each in their own way, highlight how important something so seemingly simple is in keeping us going.

Dr. Thompson spoke about the importance of community engagement, and the need to empower each other’s voices. And, as the narrative that the pandemic is over drones on and community engagement dwindles, I am reminded of the times during the height of the pandemic in which people did come together as a community.

Emory highlighted collective responsibility as an important component of ensuring students’ safety on campus. That individuals, whether on campus “to live, work or visit,” should follow COVID-19 guidelines to support the community. Those who were off-campus during this peak time were still a part of this campaign, and I vividly remember being sent a sweater and a sticker (now on my laptop) with the message: take care of each other. Albeit not the end-all answer in COVID relief, students from multiple organizations came together to sew masks, fundraise supplies, and write letters of encouragement to those going through a rough time.

For you. For Us. For Emory.

https://studenthealth.emory.edu/other/COVID/stay-healthy.html

In my community, a block away from one of Emory’s hospitals in Atlanta, my Desi-American neighborhood came alive at 7 pm every day in a communal outburst of clapping for the essential workers putting their lives on the line. While initially a demonstration of appreciation for frontline workers, those five minutes, hanging outside our windows, were an important reminder to us of our co-dependent existence in this world–that albeit long hours of isolation, we were not alone.

But, it was still hard for us with family members back in India and other South-Asian countries. While neighbors were having summer get-togethers and had vaccination appointments lined up, doctors in India were struggling to acquire treatment drugs and open ICU beds. It evoked a jarring feeling of helplessness from a place of immense privilege. So, despite the narrative of WhatsApp COVID cures, Desi communities across the United States came together to raise money for supplies, such as oxygen concentrators, to send to physicians on the ground.

Moreover, regarding support during the United States’ COVID surges, Desi communities took care of others–religious events were done virtually or socially distanced; neighbors made food for the elderly; family and friends met via zoom–knowing that it would ensure a safe community. In Atlanta, we made food satchels for the homeless, who may not have felt safe at shelters filled with individuals sick from the virus.

However, I know that in all communities, there were individuals who may not have felt at ease with the vaccine/treatment measures because they believed in alternate sources for a cure. How best should one go about navigating this conversation? And, why is it that this hesitation came about so headstrong during this pandemic as compared to the hesitancy surrounding mandatory vaccines for school-aged children?

This week, we spoke to Dr. Melanie Thompson and the Emory Outbreak Response Team. Dr. Thompson emphasized the importance of ensuring that the community (aka the target recipients) were always included in the decision-making process. The Emory Outbreak Response Team also talked about the challenges in talking to people who did not necessarily agree with them about the vaccine, and how it was important to listen to them and work with them to find innovative ways to spread information.

Seeing the ways that the community can come together to solve AIDS or combat misinformation gives me hope. However, it also gives an insight into how the religious right have been able to effectively organize. If you have a large group of people that agree that congregate each week, it is easy to convert that into voting power if you promote the respective messages. It also helps a community elect a leader, because if you are a part of this community, you already have a set base that will vote for you.

However, this also makes me wonder how to engage those who do not usually involve themselves in activism. For example, in the Cambodian American community, we have the reputation of not voting or caring about politics. However, this is exactly the sentiment that leads to candidates that do not serve the Cambodian American community. Furthermore, high poverty rates, low levels of education, and the fact that most are refugees of a Genocide provide many accessibility issues if they want to become politically involved. While I believe that most Cambodian Americans can agree that certain issues are present, I wonder how that can be redirected to direct action.

On the other hand, I see a lot of movement on my corner of social media towards social justice, but Millennials and Gen-Z seem discouraged by the appearance of a lack of action. I wonder if this is because we are focusing on national issues and want big flashy actions, even though it’s difficult to get national issues to come to a consensus, and local issues are not receiving the same headlines unless it’s extremely controversial. If so, should individuals pay more attention to local politics? If not, how do Millennials and Gen-Z have to channel their support more effectively into legislation?

There was a lot of discussion around student’s declining attitudes toward the college experience. A lot of disparate theories were thrown out there, but they seemed disjointed and often conflicting. For an example, in regards to rising student apathy, hyper competitiveness was offered as the culprit. Beyond the conflicting nature, I think this explanation cuts against 1) our flagging global academic standings (under our own, domestic rankings), 2) what the average long-serving professor would say across nearly any discipline, and 3) common sense/observation. 

The most common sense explanation is that undergraduate students are seeing what their brothers and sisters, older friends, and upperclassmen are graduating into and are dismayed. This was vaguely touched on last week, but it was shunted to the periphery of the discussion. It should be front and center.

Cost of a college education rises year over year. Number of diplomas dispensed rises year over year. Yet the number of people actually working in their graduating field drops year over year. The debt-incurred-to-salary-potential ratio is reaching an unsustainable level. This problem is troubling in and of itself. But the worst caveat is yet to be noted—the skyrocketing debts foisted upon these children are undefaultable. It will be extracted from the kid come hell or high water. We do not allow this in any other loan structure in the United States. Bankruptcy is always a way out. Everyone, everything is defaultable—save the loans we make to our children. 

When you consider all these growing problems together, it’s fast becoming a blatantly predatory practice, yet colleges express no willingness to engage in a meaningful exploration of this problem. We’re still selling hopes and dreams at college. How do you put a price upon this? I don’t know, but we did. And you’re going to pay it. Even if you find yourself bussing tables at a coffeeshop. Even if it kicks home ownership out of your reach. Even if it takes the rest of your life to repay. And when we discuss it, we’ll suggest it’s a failure of optimism in the student body. It’s not a mental error or shortcoming to be troubled upon finding that the prosperity you thought you were promised isn’t actually in reach. Especially when you begin to feel how real and concrete the debt is compared to the fine piece of paper it’s bought you.

We have not presented a coherent answer.

The earliest stages of the COVID-19 pandemic created a unique clash between two contrasting human interests: physical and psychological health. On one hand, people had a psychological need to connect with other people to create a sense of community during uncertain times. On the other hand, people wanted to protect their physical health by avoiding contact with others to as much as possible. These clashing interests indicate why virtual communications, such as zoom, became more popular. As humans, we generally like to avoid uncertainty. Dr. Bianchi notes that, even if our decision is not economically sound, many people will choose it if they are certain of the outcome. With so many unknown questions at the outset of the COVID-19 pandemic, how did people find certainty?

Dr. Bianchi highlighted the phenomena that occur within society that help people cope with uncertainty. One example that occurred during the pandemic was the spread of misinformation. At times when research could not uncover answers relating to COVID-19, people looked for answers on their own. Even if some of these answers were not true, they appealed to people by creating a sense of certainty. Another example discussed by Dr. Bianchi involved people engaging in tasks to regain control over something during pandemic uncertainty. During lockdown periods, people would often reorganize their home, join clubs, or set aside a specific time for a hobby. Knowing that such activities would be there at a set time gave people a sense of certainty, improving mental health. As Bianchi notes, these examples are not specific to the pandemic.

Dr. Dittmann took a slightly different angle in her research, studying COVID-19’s impact on people’s desire to create economic equality. During the pandemic, wealth disparities only grew, as lockdowns favored larger businesses that could afford to operate online. Her study sought to answer whether this changed society’s perception of wealth distribution and whether they would be more likely to advocate for improving it. Dr. Dittmann found that those who were personally harmed by the pandemic were much more likely to advocate for economic equality than those who were not. It was interesting to see how moral values changed because of COVID-19,  and whether these changes will be permanent.

HIV/AIDS was, and continues to be, a unique pandemic. As such, it has set precedent for public health communication that has been echoed today during the COVID-19 pandemic. Sandra Thurman’s lecture on her experiences during the early stages of HIV/AIDS highlights those similarities and allows us to point out the differences.

One major similarity between the HIV/AIDS and COVID-19 pandemics that was apparent in Thurman’s lecture includes the use of well-liked public figures to raise awareness and address misconceptions. From a psychological standpoint, having a familiar face discussing an unfamiliar topic generally makes listeners feel more at ease, and thus more likely to listen to the subject matter. To provide some examples, actor Rock Hudson became an early supporter of HIV/AIDS awareness. This was especially important during a time where the virus was still very unknown and was being overlooked by the highest levels of government. Desmond Tutu, a famous human rights activist and Nobel Peace Prize winner, also spoke publicly about groundbreaking HIV/AIDS drug research. In the early 1990s, Magic Johnson rose to become a public advocate on the ongoing pandemic, dispelling the idea that the virus was only spreading among gay men. During the COVID-19 pandemic, we have seen similar methods of public health outreach. For example, celebrities such as Queen Elizabeth, Dolly Parton, and Ryan Reynolds shared videos of their vaccination to various media platforms. As a side note, this concept is not new; Elvis Presley shared his Polio vaccine on live television to encourage the public to get vaccinated as well. As Thurman noted, public figures should be carefully selected to avoid mixed messages.

Another commonality between the two pandemics is the increase in community building activities. As Thurman noted, the AIDS memorial quilt event in 1987 was a massive gathering in honor of those who lost their lives to the virus. 35 years later, it continues to be an annual event that brings those impacted by the pandemic closer together. Although we have not experienced an event for COVID-19 on a similar scale, smaller communities were able to get together to help raise awareness and improve treatment for the virus. For example, volunteers from Emory helped set up and administer testing sites. Later on, volunteers also worked at vaccination sites in areas with lower vaccination rates, hoping to educate people on potential benefits.

One key difference between COVID -19 and HIV/AIDS was the quickness of national awareness. Due to the nature of the virus, the faster methods of communicating information, and the more immediate recognition of the virus by government officials, public health responses were much quicker and robust during the COVID-19 outbreak. Although there is still room to improve, public health outreach has improved significantly since the early stages of HIV/AIDS.

In last week’s lecture, we had multiple speakers from Emory’s community come out and discuss the impact of COVID-19 on education. One aspect that stood out to me, and I have grown passionate about these past couple of years, is disability resources for students, specifically comparing remote settings and in-person settings. The mental health resources provided to students during regular school years are not great. Emory is no different. Emory’s central mental health resource is Counseling and Psychological Services (CAPS). Even though CAPS switched to a remote telehealth form during COVID-19, only those who were still residing in Georgia could receive services. Thus, many people who were forced to go home did not have access to CAPS.

Before COVID-19 and even now post-COVID-19 (are we really post-COVID-19, though?), CAPS was severely underfunded and lacked proper staffing to meet the needs of students. Mental health has always been something Emory students have struggled with. According to the website Humans of University, they placed Emory at no. 4 for the most depressed student body. Whether that is true or not, one thing I know for sure is that Emory’s mental health resources are inadequate to help all struggling students. I’ve had personal experiences with CAPS that, unfortunately, seem to be universal.

When I first signed up for CAPS, it took a few weeks to have an initial meeting to determine my needs and intake. When I was asked if I had preferences, I requested to be assigned a therapist who is a person of color or a woman simply because I believed that these criteria were important aspects of my life that would be better understood by someone who can relate to me. This caused me to experience a wait time of 3 months, which was absolutely ridiculous. The average wait time for CAPS is about 2 months, but because I had preferences (which aren’t extremely picky or detailed), I was forced to wait an extra month. That is not a reasonable wait time for students reaching out for help. On top of that, it should not be difficult to provide students with a woman therapist or a person of color; Emory has thousands of students who identify with those identities. The staff should also reflect that.

Mental health is not the only form of disability that exists, of course. During COVID-19, certain students with physical disabilities, including myself, struggled with remote learning. I have visual impairments, and so being on Zoom and on my computer for hours on end brought me so much eye strain and pain. Many students with various physical disabilities struggle to do remote schooling because physical schools provide specialized learning and tools to help those disabilities. For many parents in the country, it forced them to become teachers for their children with disabilities so that they did not fall behind. However, according to The Washington Post, parents with children that receive special education “… are not just falling behind academically but are missing developmental milestones and losing key skills necessary for an independent life.” The pandemic was a really rough time for disabled students, and there weren’t many resources provided to relieve students.

Emory’s main resource for disabled students is the Department of Accessibility Services (DAS). While DAS could not provide much help during remote learning, just like CAPS, it is severely understaffed and underfunded. There is too much demand from students and insufficient staff members within the department. I’ve also been personally affected by this; I applied for accommodations at the beginning of this semester and, 3 months later, have yet to hear anything. At this rate, the semester is nearing its end, so what would DAS be able to do for me? It’s truly a shame.

For a university that costs nearly $80,000 a year, you would think that vital departments, such as CAPS and DAS, would be properly funded and staffed. Unfortunately, this pandemic has shown us that this is not true, and their limitations are extensive. Hopefully, enough awareness and conversations with the administration will improve things and implement change.

Thinking back to the beginning of the pandemic, all the way back to March of 2020, is strange.

I was in my junior year of high school, and I was starting to become burnt out beyond belief. I remember hoping every single day that something, anything would happen in order to let me slow down, take a break, and rest. When my wish was granted, I felt as if I’d been praying to a monkey’s paw.

Virtual learning at my southern Georgia public high school was a joke. Videos of lectures were posted on Google Classroom, we were sent quizzes, tests, and worksheets to fill out asynchronously, and school was a lonely chore. I wasn’t learning a thing. Although that did matter, as I had IB exams to take at the end of my senior year, in which I would be tested on things that I was learning during this “COVID break,” it didn’t really seem like it mattered. I mean, the IB exams were free, and I was going to a public high school–it wasn’t like I was paying $75,000 per year for an extremely diminished education.

Others, obviously, were not so lucky.

During the presentation, Dr. Eric Weeks mentioned that, in a survey of Emory students, at least one (if not many) requested a tuition reimbursement. In fact, one (Oxford College!) student filed a class action lawsuit against Emory requesting a full tuition refund for the virtual learning part of the semester, on the basis that the education that was provided was an “inadequate substitute for the tens of thousands of dollars paid in tuition for the semester.”

In hindsight, giving a tuition refund for the lackluster few months remaining in the spring semester seems almost obvious. The severe lack of preparation, the hardships in mental health, and the absence of any actual learning lend themselves to, at the very least, a partial tuition refund for the $26,500 students paid during the spring semester. However, it does make sense that the university likely saw this move as a slippery slope–if Emory had to return to classes virtually during the fall semester of 2020, what basis would they have for charging students for classes? And, in all fairness, classes were still happening, and professors still had to be paid. It’s a difficult question that I am certainly glad I did not have to wrestle with the answer to.

Either way, at a university that does its best to offer mental health support–but often falls short–I have found that money is something that is not discussed often enough when talking about student mental health. Although it may have set a “dangerous” precedence, when millions of Americans have lost their jobs due to COVID, doesn’t it make sense to offer families a bit of mental and financial reprieve for a singular semester? Dr. Glass often talks about the many worries that he sees students come into his office with, and he often lectures about how students should stop the “over-glorification of busy” and how we should stop comparing ourselves to others. However, when the university (the same one that costs almost $80,000/year) offers full ride scholarships only to the students who have made the most actionable changes within their community, how is it possible to not glorify business? When I open an assignment on Canvas and see my grade on a plot line, directly comparing me to my peers, is it even comparing myself to others when the software does it for me? After having my educational world mostly stopped for close to two years now, and with my Emory education costing as much as it does, why would I not do my best to be as involved as possible?

To me, it seems that many of the impacts of education came down upon students, with the university trying its hardest to ignore the one thing that most people are worried about: money.