In September, I wrote an essay on what it was like telling my immigrant parents about my years-long depression and suicidal ideation. Since then, many immigrants have reached out to share their own experiences. Some told me that confessing to their parents ultimately encouraged them to seek professional help. Others said their feelings were mindlessly dismissed and they walked away feeling even more distant.
Have you brought up your mental health with your immigrant parents or other family members? How did it go? If it didn’t go so well, where did you turn for emotional support? Tell me in the comments, if you want.
I think I was 17 when I realized I was depressed. It was to a point where sometimes I didn’t even know who I was. I contemplated suicide multiple times, wondering if anyone would even notice or care. Over the years, I sort of tried to distract myself and bury these feelings. This was coming at a time where I didn’t want to portray myself as “weak” or “vulnerable”. I thought that if I thought more positively and blocked out all the bad thoughts they would just go away. For a while it seemed to work. And then one day in college when I was 21, all the pressure and stress and sadness and anger that had been building up for the last few years spilled out. That’s when I started considering getting professional help.
The only person who knew was my girlfriend, now my fiancé, because she was there when it happened. She saw me hurt and abuse myself either with words or with wounds. And she forced me to seek out the campus counseling office. I was then referred to a psychiatrist, and began treatment for obsessive compulsive disorder. I didn’t tell my parents. How could I? How could I tell them that for years, I had considered taking my own life? That every moment of silence was chaos in my head? What would they think of me? Would they call me paagal (crazy, insane, deranged, etc.)? Would they shame me? Would they disapprove of my treatment?
One day, when I was home from college, I sat with my mom and told her everything. I told her about how I had been depressed for a long time. I told her about the counselors and the psychiatrists and specialists I’ve been seeing. I told her about the antidepressants I’ve been taking. As expected, she began sobbing. And right on schedule, she began to blame me for my own affliction – that I didn’t pray hard enough, that I didn't need to see a psychiatrist or take any drugs, that I was trying to get attention, and on and on. My father didn’t exactly help; he preyed on my inherent paranoias to make me think that the specialists I’ve been seeing don’t really care about me and are trying to make me think there’s something wrong with me so I can give them my money.
Eventually, I did stop taking my antidepressants, turning my gaze to other drugs. I started drinking a lot more, smoking a lot more. And then my best friend passed away that year, and that’s when everything spiraled. If it wasn’t for the everlasting and wholesome support of my close friends, and my fiancé, I wouldn’t be here.
I know it seems like I’m painting my parents with a bad brush but honestly, it’s because they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand how being in a constant state of stress and anxiety from early childhood could take a toll on the human mind. They didn’t understand that the specialists I’ve been seeing are the ones who are most qualified to help me. They didn’t understand how these antidepressants aren’t something I have to take for the rest of my life, but more like a crutch to get me back to feeling like my normal self. But now they do. These days my parents often ask me, “How are you feeling? Is everything alright? Do you want to talk about something? Have you had any bad thoughts lately? Do you need to see someone? Would you feel more comfortable if you were taking your medication again?”
Yes, at first the experience of telling my parents about my depression was mortifying… but at the same time, opening that dialogue between me and them allowed them to gain a deeper understanding in what I, their child, was going through and how I was suffering. They’re past the idea of praying my depression away. Now they just want to help. And in the end, with their support as well as my other loved ones, all that misery may have been worth it.
Hi Fiza, just wanted to say I love this newletter! I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder in college (2013) and I still haven't told my parents. I couldnt afford medication until recently and almost had to drop out because i was having panic attacks in class. We have a pretty rocky relationship and I don't know if i'll ever be able to tell them honestly.
I told my older sister I didn't want to keep living when I was a freshman in college and felt rly guilty about burdening her with my issues. But she actually became the messenger and told our mom what was going on. If she didn't tell my mom I dunno if I would have had the guts. At first my mom blamed my lack of connection to faith and forced me to start going to church a lot more but over the yrs she has rly learned a lot and both she and my sister drove me to my 1st therapy session last yr. (depression )
Thanks for making space for this. My mother is a Vietnamese refugee, but very Americanized now. Both she and I have pretty bad mental health issues, which has either been caused by or resulted in an abusive top-down relationship. I told her I was getting help and encouraged her to do the same. She doesn’t believe these issues are real and grew angry with the suggestion of her going to therapy. We’ve been estranged 2 years now because I had to make an ultimatum to protect myself. I find support in my community (chosen family) and in finding solace in the fact that none of it is personal to me. Everyone is at a different place on their lives. As a refugee woman who experienced a lot of abuse herself, I’ve made peace with the fact that it’s all she can do.
I think I was 17 when I realized I was depressed. It was to a point where sometimes I didn’t even know who I was. I contemplated suicide multiple times, wondering if anyone would even notice or care. Over the years, I sort of tried to distract myself and bury these feelings. This was coming at a time where I didn’t want to portray myself as “weak” or “vulnerable”. I thought that if I thought more positively and blocked out all the bad thoughts they would just go away. For a while it seemed to work. And then one day in college when I was 21, all the pressure and stress and sadness and anger that had been building up for the last few years spilled out. That’s when I started considering getting professional help.
The only person who knew was my girlfriend, now my fiancé, because she was there when it happened. She saw me hurt and abuse myself either with words or with wounds. And she forced me to seek out the campus counseling office. I was then referred to a psychiatrist, and began treatment for obsessive compulsive disorder. I didn’t tell my parents. How could I? How could I tell them that for years, I had considered taking my own life? That every moment of silence was chaos in my head? What would they think of me? Would they call me paagal (crazy, insane, deranged, etc.)? Would they shame me? Would they disapprove of my treatment?
One day, when I was home from college, I sat with my mom and told her everything. I told her about how I had been depressed for a long time. I told her about the counselors and the psychiatrists and specialists I’ve been seeing. I told her about the antidepressants I’ve been taking. As expected, she began sobbing. And right on schedule, she began to blame me for my own affliction – that I didn’t pray hard enough, that I didn't need to see a psychiatrist or take any drugs, that I was trying to get attention, and on and on. My father didn’t exactly help; he preyed on my inherent paranoias to make me think that the specialists I’ve been seeing don’t really care about me and are trying to make me think there’s something wrong with me so I can give them my money.
Eventually, I did stop taking my antidepressants, turning my gaze to other drugs. I started drinking a lot more, smoking a lot more. And then my best friend passed away that year, and that’s when everything spiraled. If it wasn’t for the everlasting and wholesome support of my close friends, and my fiancé, I wouldn’t be here.
I know it seems like I’m painting my parents with a bad brush but honestly, it’s because they didn’t understand. They didn’t understand how being in a constant state of stress and anxiety from early childhood could take a toll on the human mind. They didn’t understand that the specialists I’ve been seeing are the ones who are most qualified to help me. They didn’t understand how these antidepressants aren’t something I have to take for the rest of my life, but more like a crutch to get me back to feeling like my normal self. But now they do. These days my parents often ask me, “How are you feeling? Is everything alright? Do you want to talk about something? Have you had any bad thoughts lately? Do you need to see someone? Would you feel more comfortable if you were taking your medication again?”
Yes, at first the experience of telling my parents about my depression was mortifying… but at the same time, opening that dialogue between me and them allowed them to gain a deeper understanding in what I, their child, was going through and how I was suffering. They’re past the idea of praying my depression away. Now they just want to help. And in the end, with their support as well as my other loved ones, all that misery may have been worth it.
Hi Fiza, just wanted to say I love this newletter! I was diagnosed with general anxiety disorder in college (2013) and I still haven't told my parents. I couldnt afford medication until recently and almost had to drop out because i was having panic attacks in class. We have a pretty rocky relationship and I don't know if i'll ever be able to tell them honestly.
I told my older sister I didn't want to keep living when I was a freshman in college and felt rly guilty about burdening her with my issues. But she actually became the messenger and told our mom what was going on. If she didn't tell my mom I dunno if I would have had the guts. At first my mom blamed my lack of connection to faith and forced me to start going to church a lot more but over the yrs she has rly learned a lot and both she and my sister drove me to my 1st therapy session last yr. (depression )
Thanks for making space for this. My mother is a Vietnamese refugee, but very Americanized now. Both she and I have pretty bad mental health issues, which has either been caused by or resulted in an abusive top-down relationship. I told her I was getting help and encouraged her to do the same. She doesn’t believe these issues are real and grew angry with the suggestion of her going to therapy. We’ve been estranged 2 years now because I had to make an ultimatum to protect myself. I find support in my community (chosen family) and in finding solace in the fact that none of it is personal to me. Everyone is at a different place on their lives. As a refugee woman who experienced a lot of abuse herself, I’ve made peace with the fact that it’s all she can do.