TW: Suicide
If our community believes therapy is for people who are crazy, it’s no wonder it’s hard to ask for help or even admit that we need it. Over 10 million Latinos in the United States report experiencing mental illness. That number is staggering, but when you consider how many don’t (or can’t) self-report or don’t identify their symptoms, the number of Latinos who actually experience mental illness is much higher. In 2021, the Latino Health Center conducted a survey on depression and anxiety within the Latino community and found that 25% of participants may experience depression and 36% may experience anxiety. I want to share this data to not only raise awareness of the serious issues that exist, but also to let those who are suffering know that they are not alone. As someone who suffers from mental health issues, I wanted to write a love letter to other women of color to remind them that you are not alone.
Hello Hermana,
First, let me tell you that I love you. And on the days when you don’t love yourself (which we both would like to admit), I love you more. And not only because you deserve it, but because I know what it’s like to need it. I know what it feels like to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and desperately want someone to help you carry it. I know how uncomfortable it is to wear the mask you put on to protect people from what you see as weakness. I also know the strength it takes to put a smile on your face to distract others from the pain in your eyes. My dear Hermana, I know what it’s like to suffer in silence. This letter is to let you know that I see you and that you are not alone.
When I was seven, my teacher gave us an assignment to write down all the things I liked about myself. I remember staring at a blank piece of paper and not being able to think of anything. So I decided to write down all the things I hated about myself, from the texture of my hair to the size of my waist. I hated everything. Around that time, I also developed an eating disorder, but I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I started skipping lunch at school, but I didn’t see it as a bad thing because I was bombarded with so many diet commercials and ads every day. I would do anything to not see a fat girl in the mirror.
This willingness is lifetime It’s a movie about bulimia. The movie was supposed to raise awareness and warn people, but for me it became a how-to guide. The idea that I could hide my behavior the way I hid my pain was very appealing to a depressed pre-teenage girl.
Over the next few years, I learned how to perfect the facade that would prevent people from even thinking anything was wrong. In high school, I got straight A’s, was captain of the cheerleading squad, was involved in all clubs, and dated the popular football player. American dream, right? It was more like a silent nightmare. I still had an eating disorder, cried myself to sleep most nights, and attempted suicide twice, the second of which landed me in a psychiatric hospital. I was only 17 at the time, barely old enough to watch an R-rated movie alone, but broken enough to want to end my suffering. By any means necessary. I was also old enough to know that women of color shouldn’t be mentally broken. We shouldn’t show weakness. We shouldn’t ask for help. Those are privileges given to white girls.
So even as a teenager, I knew that someone like me shouldn’t be in the hospital, and I lied to get out. Not because I didn’t have real trauma, but because trauma is assumed not to be worthy of care or attention. More than 20 years later, I am forced to admit that I still sometimes lie to myself and others about the mental and emotional pain I feel. We live in a world that dismisses and denies our humanity, using words like “grit” and “resilience” to describe our ability to take on anything that comes our way. But, Hermana, I want you to know that your trauma is real. Your pain is worth acknowledging, and you are worth healing.
But if you’re like me, you probably think that healing powers, especially for you, are even more fictitious than El Cucuy’s. I understand your feelings, and I think your skepticism is justified, given that we’re expected to constantly pour out to others, no matter how empty our own emotions may be. I also think that psychologically you’d be in a totally different situation if you put even half the energy you put into taking care of yourself that you put into taking care of others.
If you see yourself the way I do, you will see that you are more than an afterthought, more than an emotional leftover. But that is the beauty of our sisters and community. We can help each other find in and for ourselves what we can’t find alone. Here are some words from women of color who support me and teach me how to take care of myself:
“I have a duty to speak the truth as I see it, to share not only the triumphs and the feel-good parts, but also the pain, the intense, often unmitigated pain. It’s important to share what I know: survival is surviving, not walking in the rain.” — Audre Lorde
This letter owes this quote to this quote. All my very personal and candid writing owes this quote to this quote. And as dramatic as it may sound, I owe this quote to this quote. The two things that make depression so debilitating are shame and silence, and they go hand in hand. I suffered in silence for years because I was ashamed of how I felt and didn’t want to be judged. When you suffer from anxiety and low self-esteem, the last thing you want to do is share information that you think will cause people to look down on you even more. But this quote lets me know that not only is it okay to share my pain, it’s also my duty. So, even when the tears are rolling down my cheeks, I pick up my pen and write about my story, past and present. And I want you to do the same. Share your triumphs and your pain. Talk to a loved one, see a therapist, write in a journal, or all of these ways. Vent it.
“I will continue to live and be blessed with dignity.” — Celia Cruz
During the interview, Celia Cruz was asked if there was anything she would like to change about herself. She responded that she would like to live and age with dignity. Even on the best of days, it’s easier to define dignity than to embody it. It’s almost ironic, considering that my body is the part of me I show the least respect and reverence for. But her words give me hope because she doesn’t talk about living with dignity as a destination. It’s a journey. And knowing that helps me be more forgiving of myself on the days when I don’t treat myself with dignity. I’ve also learned that I need to be realistic and intentional by asking myself questions like, “How can I respect my body today?”
For me, that means eating well, doing yoga, getting a massage, and finally making that doctor’s appointment that I’ve been putting off for so long. Your issues may be different, but there’s probably some part of you that deserves more respect and honor than you’ve given it recently (or ever). How can you honor yourself today?
“It is one thing to liberate yourself; it is another to claim ownership of that liberated self.” — Toni Morrison
This quote is a reminder of the importance of not compromising. Personally, professionally, psychologically. Few things have felt more trapped than depression has. It has controlled my thoughts, dictated my actions, and affected my relationships. Freeing myself from that was essential for me to survive. But to be clear, freeing myself does not mean I did it alone, because I didn’t. With the help of community, therapy, and medication, I was able to free myself. That life-saving combination has helped me survive, but Morrison wants us to go beyond surviving and thrive.
Yes, I’m grateful for the days I don’t feel emotional pain, but does that gratitude mean I have to compromise? No. But when feeling depressed becomes my baseline, it’s hard to even imagine what joy feels like. But I still deserve joy, and so do you.
with love,
angel
