on Mental Health: Talking to Family
It’s hard to tell my family that I’m in therapy. These are the men and women who grew up in old-school Mexico. Wasn’t no godtdamn time for your “feelings.” It was full-time survival mode, baby. You’re “sad?” Well, go be “sad” at fucking work otherwise this family is going to starve. And speaking of food, 1970’s Mexico didn’t even believe in food allergies, let alone someone’s “mental health.” Back then, if you had some shit like “a serious shellfish and peanut allergy” or “clinical depression,” you could either: A) Get over it or B) Fuck off.
“You feel sad, foo? You had a rough day, carnal? You’re consumed with a darkness and hatred that you don’t know how to get rid of, raza? Well, guess what, puto? Your brother just got your ration of food. There will be no mention of this tomorrow.”
That’s how it was in 1970’s Mexico. Maybe, I suppose, a little less West-coast cholo, but besides that I nailed it.
Doesn’t seem to matter to my family that just a few years ago, I was so depressed I had all but stopped sleeping. As a rule, my family doesn't discuss matters of mental health; it's not a lack of caring or compassion but a protective logic to think of emotions as things to be repressed—no one can hurt your feelings if you don't have any!
And it’s not just Mexican families! Families of most immigrant groups are as much as three times less likely than Americans to seek out professional psychological care. Some of it, I assume, is attributed to language barriers and a limited understanding of mental health resources. But a fair amount, it feels, is from culture. Your upbringing invalidates your feelings. “Everyone feels that way, so don’t think you’re special.”
Thankfully, a therapist likely has good advice about how to talk to your relatives about your therapy. Mine did. Connie suggested that I download a mood tracker app. At first, it felt a little dumb, childish even, looking at a picture on my phone every few hours and pressing the cartoon smily face that most closely resembled how I felt. But as I practiced identifying my feelings—often somewhere between frustrated, detached, and sad—I realized communicating with my family could be more direct than I ever imagined.
During a recent family party, my no.1 cousin and I snuck away for a sidebar convo n’ couple o’ tootskies (iykyk). Him and I are so completely opposite that it doesn’t make sense we’re best friends. We disagree on everything. He’s old-school like my family: Works hard and will sleep when he’s dead. I’m more “modern” in that I’ll update my LinkedIn profile, then take a sick day from the office to have an existential crisis.
As Danny details a recent snafu from the job site, I smile and nod without the slightest clue of what a “foreman” or an “OSHA” is. I’m listening, but not really. I’ve been wanting to tell him something for a minute now.
“It sucks when you brush off that I’m in therapy, bro.”
He says that us talking right now is enough therapy. I, of course, disagree. For me, this is less “therapy” and more “midnight on a cool summer evening where I would have blacked out two minutes ago were it not for a quick nose beer.” Still, if there’s one person I wish understood, it’s him.
My family, like all families, just want what’s best for me. Thing is, at a certain point, only you know what's best for you. I knew that I needed to talk to Danny about my mental health. No one understands me like he does, but even he doesn’t really “get” me yet. That’s on me. I’m still relying on cartoon smily faces to articulate what’s going on in my head. (Speaking of which, Danny can never know about this mood tracker app. If he doesn’t believe in therapy now, he’ll think it’s full on April-fucking-Fools’ joke when he learns I press different emojis to track my depression.)
“I don’t know, man. It’s just weird to me, but if you say you need it…” and we continued on, back to safer, non-emotional dramas. That was the conversation I was most dreading, but it was over almost as soon as it started and we were both better cousins for it.
Danny and I get back to the family party. His dad lines up the shots. I toast silently to myself for taking that first step.
This piece is the fourth in an ongoing series about mental health, my experiences seeking professional help, and the process of getting better.