by Tasnia Habib
I called my dad into my room, sat him down, and told him in as few words as possible that I would like to start taking an antidepressant. I was expecting anger, denial, surprise. Instead, what I saw spread throughout his face was deep concern. He told me that he and my mother had known something was wrong when they saw me laying in bed most of the day. He wanted to know everything; when did this start, how long had I been suffering and what he could do to help.
When I started to exhibit symptoms of depression in college, I didn’t think I needed their help. Growing up as a South Asian American child of immigrants, I felt like the best thing I could do is not be a burden to my parents. I was too aware of the struggles they faced and I didn't want to be another one.
Looking back at my journals at the time, I was surprised that it essentially looked like the Symptoms of Depression page on WebMD. At the young age of 21, I thought my life wouldn’t amount to anything. I was tired all the time and didn’t have much energy or motivation. I started having trouble sleeping and trouble eating. I didn’t enjoy activities as much as I used to enjoy, like going to concerts or hanging out with my friends.
Despite these glaringly obvious symptoms, it was very hard for me to admit that I needed help. In addition to measuring up my parents' expectations, I also felt the burden of what I now know is the “model minority myth” - the idea that all Asian people are academically successful and end up in high-paying careers. This idea was reinforced by what I felt like my friends and family were achieving, as well as the rare media depictions around Asian Americans. I never even considered depression or anxiety, I just felt like I was a failure. I had watched my parents build a life for their children after moving thousands of miles from their families and everything they knew; I couldn’t fall short of their dreams for me.
When a friend started going to the university counseling center, she suggested that counseling may also be helpful for me. In these sessions, I started admitting to myself what I was really dealing with. I didn’t tell my parents about the session. I was worried about their reaction; therapy wasn’t popular among the South Asians I knew. I had heard family members discuss others mental health issues with negativity. They would say it was only for white people.
The idea that talk therapy and medication are for white people is common in many Asian communities. According to the National Latino and Asian American Study (NLAAS), Asian Americans are three times less likely to seek mental health services than white people. There is a lot of shame and silence in talking about mental health issues. This silence and the negative view of therapy and medication are the stigmas that prevent many Asian Americans, including me, from seeking help.
Although therapy was helpful, I was still dealing with a lot of fatigue and lack of motivation. Now that I was more open to the world of mental health, I became more comfortable seeking help through all the options that were available. I was able to access a psychiatrist through the university health center, without having to inform my parents. When I was prescribed an antidepressant, I didn’t have a choice; I was on my parents insurance so I couldn’t fill this prescription without their knowledge. Either I had to finally talk to them or not get the help I wanted.
Author with her father.
Once my parents were aware, they did anything they could to help me. My dad expressed his concern through his love language, articles printed out from Yahoo news about depression. He researched everything he could about it and how he could best help me. He started a fundraiser for the National Suicide Prevention Hotline for his birthday. He got into arguments on Facebook over stigmatizing comments. He admitted to me, “I thought only Americans got depression.”
Still, it hasn’t all been easy. My parents were disappointed that I went to a therapist instead of talking to them. According to researchers at the The Menninger Clinic in Houston, TX, Asian Americans tend to turn to family structures for coping with mental health issues. It was difficult for my parents to understand that therapy isn’t a rejection of their parenting, but a safe space to talk about myself. My family and I are still navigating this new frontier together and many issues have come up. We have started to break down these stigmas together.
I accounted for my parents' fear and unfamiliarity with depression, but I didn’t account for their love. My mom and dad traveled miles to an unknown country, learned a new language, and grew new roots for their children. The undercurrent of their worry for me is love.
About the Author
Tasnia Habib is a writer, yoga teacher, and barista from Burtonsville, MD. She graduated from University of Maryland with a degree in Community Health. Along with writing poetry in the Notes app at 2 AM, she contributes to FilmFest Magazine and writes a newsletter about podcasts.
Photos provided by author. Cover image: Michael Janis, “Echoes”. Used courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
