on Mental Health: An Introduction
It was a simple experience I had as a boy—one most boys probably have—that does a lot to explain the trouble men have with talking about and understanding their feelings. Somewhere along the way, another kid in my 8th grade class, Chris M., made it very clear that no matter what my teachers said, our interactions abided by the guy code—a law so fundamental it defined not just the social hierarchy but the fabric of the universe. (Or, at least, the universe as I understood it at 14 years old.) Chris did all that with a simple turn of phrase after making fun of me for being Mexican: "What, you gonna fuckin’ cry?"
Forget that we both came from immigrant households. Or that we were both first-generation kids here in America. Forget that he's now, presumably, a functioning member of society. Maybe he’s co-raising his own kids who overhear him opine his thoughts on the proposed Border Wall. Who knows? None of that matters though. The message that goes right to the lizard brain and stays there, wreaking havoc in all sorts of ways, is that emotions, especially ones that might be perceived as weakness, are not welcome in public. This vulnerability is such a foreign idea to those who raised me: the men and women who grew up in 1950’s and 60’s Mexico, where no one was diagnosed with depression or bipolar disorder. Men were supposed to be “men.”
There is a maze of contradictions that leads you to the definition of masculinity. It is, in itself, a coarse and not particularly helpful term. Masculinity doesn’t lend itself to introspection, discussing feelings, or even feeling those feelings. At least not traditionally or in my immigrant family. It’s a big reason Hispanic + Latino men struggle to realize that mental health is actually something to care about. Something to be actively maintained. Like, we all know the basics of keeping our bodies intact, right? So why is it that we have no clue about how to take care of our brains?
I decided to finally find out. Putting a name to suffering is the first step to doing something about it. And boy was I suffering: I couldn’t get a good review at work to save my life. I was severely disconnected from my friends and family. I was drinking so damn much. It was getting dark; too dark to see. I needed actual answers—not just big theories or, even worse, vague insights. I seeked real advice from experts on how to improve things in my head. A goal to set. Simple shit I could do on a daily basis to get me there. I had to know; it felt like my life depended on it. Everyone around me kept telling me that I looked so sad all the time. It was clearer than ever that I wasn’t in a good place. So, in 2014, I jotted down a few questions that I needed answers to, and figured I’d go from there:
How much anxiety is “normal”?
Why I am so angry?
Why I am so sad?
Why can’t I get out of bed?
And eventually…
How do I talk to my family about this?
Do I have to take this pill to get better?
Why doesn’t my health insurance cover any of this?
No matter how well-rounded I think I might be, I'm bound by things I learned from the other boys in school and from the culture at large, things I might not even remember learning. Self-protective mechanisms designed to get me through middle school that ended up sticking around. A deep-seated armor of masculinity that's really good at defending against playground taunts but not particularly useful for an adult trying to navigate intimate relationships or, at my worst state, hold a job. There's no quick way to shed that armor. I've tried! But there are ways of dismantling it piece by piece and building a new, potentially stronger version of what it means to be "a man." One that has capabilities beyond making sure I don't cry in front of my friends.
Even if you don’t find yourself in this mix of chaos, advice, and exploration, the fact that you’re taking a small action to address where your head is at is important. That first step is a big one.
For the record, I didn’t cry that day, when Chris M. and the other Polish kids were laughing in my face. I pushed it down, somewhere within myself. I can still feel the knot in my gut from time to time. But it’s never really been talked about. That’s basically been my reaction to any stress-inducing event in my life for the better part of 25 years. Deeper down, where no one knows about it, to the point that it nearly doesn’t exist. I make sure to smile in public even though the memories are there. I carry them with me. What was once toxic baggage through my twenties will hopefully be something else I can one day claim victory over.
This piece is the first in an ongoing series about mental health, my experiences seeking professional help, and the process of getting better.
