I became suicidal at the age of 13. Though my family noticed that I had become increasingly moody and sensitive, they had no idea that I frequently thought of killing myself. Life was excruciating. I cried daily — in the shower, in my room, in school bathrooms, on the street. Sometimes the pain was so overwhelming that I cut myself to relieve it.
Looking back, I realize my struggle with depression began when I was a child; I just didn’t have the language or awareness to identify it. Puberty exacerbated these feelings. My body was rapidly changing, and as a young working-class Latina, I felt disempowered and alienated from my peers. I also had a strained relationship with my parents, who were Mexican immigrants, because of my bifurcated identity: Raised in Chicago, I grew into an odd, restless and outspoken child with a wild imagination — certainly not the ideal Mexican daughter. I was very much an Americanized teen, longing for independence, particularly from my family, and my parents were not equipped to deal with me. I struggled with severe depression for many years and continued to contemplate suicide, all under the radar. It wasn’t until I had to be hospitalized at 15 that my family and friends understood that I had a mental illness.
[For more of this story, written by Erika L. Sanchez, go to http://america.aljazeera.com/o...uicide-epidemic.html]
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