First and foremost, I'd like to thank everybody for having us here.
The opportunity to speak on this issue has become dear and close to my heart. Our communities are in crisis.
My name is Matthew Glode. I'm from Millbrook First Nation, Nova Scotia, and I'm here to talk to you about mental illness.
Our son Cody started his battle with depression at the age of 13. He was a victim of bullying, and bullying wreaks havoc in our communities and in the adolescents' lives. When Cody started to self-harm, little did we know it was the beginning of a long, dark, and lonely road that would end in tragedy. We spoke openly about mental health and sought help immediately, while at the same time attending to our daughter Caitlin, who also started her own battle with depression and mental illness.
For Cody, the course of action was medication, therapy, and martial arts. Martial arts gave him a whole new perspective; it gave him something to really look forward to. He did well in school, avoided the party scene, and spent most of his time in the gym teaching kids martial arts. His self-esteem was once again where it should be—or so we thought.
He graduated from high school. He tried his hand at university and worked part-time. He seemed to have it all, although from time to time he would tell us that he was sad and didn't understand why. We always encouraged and supported him, and he continued to work hard at the gym. He started on new medication and continued therapy. Cody dreamed of becoming a professional MMA fighter. He also began to pursue a career as a firefighter. He graduated from fire school in April 2015, and little did we know that some time prior to the end he stopped taking his medication. When we did approach him, Cody explained that it made him feel worse and that it wasn't working. Someone close to us told us that he had stopped taking it. How do you make a 20-year-old firefighter/fighter take his medication?
On June 15, he was hired full-time with the Truro Fire Service. He was the youngest firefighter ever hired, and the only first nations firefighter ever hired. To say that we were proud would be an understatement.
Cody should have been on top of the world, and, yes, on the outside he appeared to be. He really had it all: a very hopeful future in MMA, a full-time career, a brand new car that he paid cash for, and a beautiful girlfriend he planned to marry. On the inside, Cody was dying a slow, painful death. He didn't want his employer to know. He was reluctant to seek out help right away. Finally, he went to the emergency room and was given completely new medication, and was told to follow up with his family doctor. Although he still didn't want to tell anything to his employer, he did seem to want to battle this illness head-on.
I truly believe that he wanted to live; however, he was exhausted from always pretending to be okay. He told me that he couldn't remember the last time that he'd felt happy—he thought at maybe 11 years old. He couldn't sleep. The pills weren't working. The thoughts in his head grew darker and darker, and so did his writing in his journal.
On March 2, our son Cody took his own life.
Many wonder how such an accomplished young man could do this. He left behind me and my wife of 22 years, his sister, three brothers, a niece, a loving girlfriend, and a large extended family of friends and co-workers alike.
This does not happen to families like mine. This does not happen to someone like Cody. For that matter, it shouldn't happen to any family or any individual.
Mental illness isn't picky; it spares no one. It doesn't matter your race, your age, your upbringing, your education, or your ambitions. It bites and digs its teeth in deep and does not release its prey.
The suicide rate in first nations communities is twice the national average. One would think that with a number like that help would be more readily available, but that's wrong.
Cody went to the doctor. He was told to call. He was given a piece of paper with a name on it. He was told to call to make an appointment with the psychologist. I'd seen Cody lose in the ring. I'd seen him lose in competition, but I'd never ever seen him defeated. When he came home that day, he was defeated. His shoulders were slumped when he found out there was a two-month waiting period to get in to see somebody. He was defeated. I saw a difference in his demeanor then. Two weeks into the two-month wait, Cody took his life. His story was not the first and it will not be the last, as long as this continues.
Would it have changed Cody's outcome if he had gotten in sooner? We don't know, and unfortunately we'll never know. But it may have bought him some time.
For a lot of people suffering from mental illness, who are deep in that pit of despair, making a phone call would be climbing Mount Everest. If Cody had gone into the office with a bump on his head, high sugars, chest pain, or even a broken foot, help would have been immediate. Mental health issues need immediate action. “Mental health” are words that people have to be comfortable with. Our son was not crazy. He did not have bad nerves. He was not lonely. He suffered every day from mental illness. If it had been cancer, there would have been all kinds of help available.
Mental health is lonely and crippling. It kills its victims. We as a nation need to make mental health a household word. We need to put in place a system that saves lives, one that, if need be, holds that person's hand until they get the help they need. We need people there to continue the care even after help has been given and received, whether that be with a simple visit or a phone call, or a person in place who would offer a hug, words of encouragement, or a listening ear. Sometimes it's so simple, but yet crucial to that person on the dark and lonely road of mental illness.
I do know that in that moment when my son could no longer bear his inner pain, he wasn't alone. God, the Creator, reached out and took him in his arms and said, “I've got you. I'm taking you home.”
Welálin. Thank you.