Sense of Then

Content note: This post discusses a mental health crisis and suicidal ideation.

One of the things I’m working on changing in how I perceive life is not getting defensive when someone asks me why I did something. This is a natural curiosity thing people have. I have it too — I like asking people why they chose one thing over the other. Or at least I think I do. Maybe I just do that in my head.

The generational trauma I’ve inherited involves demands to explain myself whenever I deviate from the perceived norm.

Why am I wearing long sleeves in the summer? Why do I wear swim shorts and not a two-piece? Why do I attend my kids’ school and extracurricular activities and not focus on work? Why do I post things on social media that hurt other people’s feelings? Why do I have anxiety when my sister doesn’t? Why aren’t I concerned when my sister feels anxious? Why do I get angry when I’m purposely excluded? Why do my kids tell me things?

I don’t have the same experience since I’ve moved, but I did receive the silent treatment and a “you can’t say you don’t deserve that, look how you behave” comment after I had SI in December 2023.

The silent treatment was because I was drowning and reaching out — on Christmas Eve, no less, how embarrassing — and I wasn’t reaching out in a healthy, safe way, but a spiraling, end-of-the-world, burn-everything-down way. Anyone I’ve met in Los Angeles would have recognized I was in crisis. If I had reached out to my husband or my adult kids, they would have recognized it too. I could have contacted 988, but I was stuck in the loop of trying to be seen, remembered, included.

I was still trying to fit into an environment that never made room for me. Instead, I was turned into the evening’s entertainment as they sent me texts like: “What are you going to do now?” and “What do you think of that?”

My mental health crisis — something it took me a few months to understand what had happened — warranted the silent treatment and admonishment for having depression so obvious to other people.

They are people who have declared to me that because I have “opportunities” in life, I do not actually have depression or anxiety — that both are either my attempts at attention, or something in my head I should be able to turn off.

Because I wasn’t able to meet either expectation, and was in crisis anyway, it became my fault. My fault for being embarrassing. My fault for whatever drama I caused, 2000 miles away, on Christmas Eve, in the house where I used to be invited to celebrate, too.

As I started healing — putting my mental health first, taking the baby steps needed to pull myself out of the crisis and into a stable headspace — I started posting on social media about my experience. I didn’t post that certain people hadn’t helped me when I needed help. I posted about having a mental health crisis, information about the helpline, and other shared posts so people would know they aren’t alone.

It’s the speaking they find embarrassing. Not the experiences I have that I then talk about.

I have been purposefully asking people why they chose one thing over the other. It’s because I want to understand them and I want to normalize curiosity in my life. I’m learning what it feels like when a question is actually curiosity, and not a demand that I explain why I exist the way I do.