Our Story Our Story

I think about death more often than I would like to admit. When I think about death actually happening to me, I am absolutely sick over disappearing and having no more chances and no more experiences and never smelling my little sister’s hair in a hug again, or feeling my mom’s heartbeat in my ear as we are cuddled up watching TV.

Growing up, I always wondered if I was sadder than everyone else my age. Or at least more aware of this sadness, this ache. Later down the road I would categorize this as feeling too much. I was always touting that feeling too much was better than feeling nothing at all—which I still believe. I still believe that my body is missing the air filter, the sliding screen door that helps filter thoughts and feelings before they hit me straight to the core. Every story I heard, every tender moment I experienced, every good or bad thing landed right on my chest, knocking the wind out of me every time.

So fast forward: I graduated from a great school, I got the corporate job, I moved cities a couple times. I fell in love. I was living in Southern California thinking everything was falling into place.

One year later that relationship would end. I would quit the job. I would fly home to see my parents with heavy shoulders. I had never felt that low before.

If you have never been at that point, I am glad. If you have, then I am sure you understand that I did not want to burden my family with this darkness. They were already worried about me. My therapist and I were meeting regularly. If only I could just talk to someone who understood what this felt like, to assure me I was not crazy. Someone who was even on the other side but could say, «Hey, I get it. It feels like the end.» Someone who could say, «It makes sense. You have been through a lot. Why don’t we just sit for a second.»

The thing about mental health is it transcends everything: race, class, sexuality, circumstance. You can do everything right and still suffer silently. What works really well for someone might not work for another. All I wanted was someone who would not judge me, who has lived through this too — someone to sit on the couch with and cry quietly.