There is a light that never goes out
Brisnid Pardo
There is a light that never goes out
Although she was a girl who didn’t grow up with much, she had family who loved her and support of generations past. Her parents made the ultimate sacrifice, leaving a life of poverty in the rearview and seizing the opportunity of upward mobility in a new world, a new place, a new country. However, somewhere along the way, the reins of her life yanked her in a different direction and put her on a road that led to tragedy and challenges. Things that were once beautiful and inspiring were suddenly dull and gray, and the harmonious flow of her life halted into a monotonous flatline. Compassion morphed into apathy as the things that used to matter, didn’t anymore. An era of love and light had dimmed, and there didn’t seem to be a light at the end of the tunnel.
Mental health in Latino communities is heavily stigmatized; talking about feelings of depression/anxiety or anything of the sort is thought of as a sign of weakness and often dismissed. According to SAMHSA’s National Survey on Drug Use and Health, “mental illness is on the rise for people in the Latino community in the U.S. between the ages of 12 and 49”. Is mental illness really on the rise or are people just becoming more aware of their ailments? A well-known Spanish phrase is la ropa sucia se lava en casa, which roughly translates to “dirty laundry is washed at home”. This phrase insinuates the shame that people in these communities feel, especially in regard to issues of mental health. There’s fear and shame in admitting feelings out of the ordinary.
Growing up, I didn’t have the courage to speak up about my troubles to my parents. I felt anchored down by feelings of depression that I couldn’t express. I had food, shelter, and family, what could possibly be so wrong for me to be feeling like this? In immigrant communities, people are often in survival mode, stressing and focusing on their basic needs in order to feel fulfilled.
As life would have it, in the span of a year, my grandfather passed from cancer and my father was diagnosed with stage IV renal cancer, of which he passed away a mere four months after that. From a distant perspective, I looked fine. My grades were pristine, I played two varsity sports, and I walked around with a smile on my face. Not a single soul outside my family knew what was going on. For the longest time, I walked around playing the most successful role of my life, the role of a girl unscathed.
Coming into college, those feelings only intensified. I would spend days at a time energetically socializing with people, being excessively productive, and staying awake longer than necessary, which would be followed by days of lethargy, apathy, and depression. Sometimes these periods would last longer than a couple days, and then I would find myself in a depressive fog for weeks, being lucky if I didn’t have multiple panic attacks a week.
I was later diagnosed with a ‘mood disorder’ and ADHD and got prescribed Wellbutrin, an antidepressant and an off-label ADHD medication. The meds worked for a while, but I felt like they were like simply adding a band-aid to years of held-back trauma.
It wasn’t until I delved into psychedelics that my world had changed. According to the National Institute of Health, “Some types of psychedelic drugs, such as psilocybin and MDMA (ecstasy), have shown promise as therapies for treatment-resistant depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. They appear to work by encouraging the growth of new connections between neurons in the brain”. During my trip, I had revisited all the grief I had shoved deep into the corners of my mind and yanked them out, unfolding them like an accordion and realized that all my anger, guilt, and negative feelings were associated with the fact that the death of my father forced me to become independent from such a young age. I was angry that I had to become an adult at 15 and be the caretaker of my family instead of my mom. I felt intense sadness that I didn’t have him there to hold me and tell me he would take care of everything. I held those feelings by the throat, stared at them intensely in the eye, and simply let go. I could finally breathe again.
Roland Griffiths, the founding director of the Johns Hopkins Center for Psychedelic and Consciousness Research comments on the success of his studies: “Compared to standard antidepressants, which must be taken for long stretches of time, psilocybin has the potential to enduringly relieve the symptoms of depression with one or two treatments.”
Throughout my journey of trying to quell the darkness of my mind, I had multiple healing talks with my mother about what I was going through. To have the unconditional love and support from someone who firsthand experienced my anger and guilt and witnessed the worst possible version of myself is like a ray of sunshine consistently beaming down on you and warming you up. I know the rest of my family would not have the same kind of acceptance towards me due to the harmful nature of our culture, so for the meanwhile I’ll keep my dirty laundry indoors.
I do not have issues with substance abuse. This summer will mark a year since I’ve dropped my antidepressants. My mind is clear, I live in the present, and I am grateful for the life I have.
Although she was a girl whose light had dimmed, she realized that she still knew how to reach the end of the tunnel. She pours into her emotions no matter how big and forgives her inner child for issues no matter how small. She is me, and she finds happiness in the darkest of places because she’s learned that her light can never go out.
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