I Come From People Who Suffered Silently

What looked like strength in my family was often emotional survival

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A reel I recently watched triggered some uncomfortable feelings in me.

It was about an Indian mom walking with her daughter in a mall, with the daughter filming her mom on her phone. The mom seemed to have a neutral, or perhaps emotionally flat, expression.

The daughter was waiting for the moment her mom noticed her picture on a storefront advertisement, and the mom did. In fact, she did a double-take, but she remained mostly expressionless.

No excitement or outward display of joy — or anything beyond the briefest of smiles. One of the kinder comments said we could see the pride in the mom’s eyes.

Maybe.

Growing up in an Indian family in South Africa, I was reminded of my stoic parents, who were never quick to offer praise or outwardly display affection.

I used to think something was wrong with me because, unlike them, I am an emotional being and learned early to suppress my emotions because suffering in silence seemed to be the norm of their generation and our culture in general.

It’s only in hindsight that I remember seeing my mother cry silently in the privacy of her room. I wonder whether she ever felt depressed, or whether her dementia, as she grew older, was a direct result of untreated depression.

Maybe I am making outrageous connections, but one can’t really know because, even now, I don’t think women have the luxury of going to a doctor and telling them they are struggling with their mental health.

So, I can only imagine back then, in the midst of trying to establish their careers and raise kids, where was the time to devote to mental health?

I am not ashamed of talking about my mental health struggles. As a highly sensitive person, I have my share of them.

The most recent one was the onset of acute emotional distress. Thankfully, the constant panic attacks and crying have segued into anxiety and grief processing.

But the thing is, once I started experiencing the symptoms, I did not hesitate to advocate for myself and get help. I have access to a therapist who has been helping me make sense of what is happening.

I have support from friends and family members. But there is the occasional insensitive remark — that I should get over it, as it’s nothing serious given the tragedies people encounter daily.

Excuse me?

So now I have to snap out of this like flipping a light switch — in case they haven’t noticed, I am trying — but my amygdala seems to have hijacked my logical mind and is literally barking nonstop at danger it sees everywhere.

In case you’re wondering, this particular guard dog is also feral. It doesn’t listen to reason, nor does it understand English or any other language I speak.

On top of that, I am supposed to feel guilty for the very real grief of becoming a soon-to-be empty nester and relocating from an environment I’ve known for many years.

I feel I am losing my identity and sense of purpose. Some genius told me to keep busy so that I am so busy I have no time to think.

Let me ask you something. I work long hours as it is. But at the end of the day, I have to come home to an empty house where the memories of shared laughter, ribbing, and “Mom! Where is my sweatshirt/pencil/notebook/soccer ball?” remain.

Tears roll down my face when I imagine sitting down to dinner by myself.

Is work going to keep me company now that the chaotic weekends filled with juggling my kids’ busy schedules are coming to an end?

Maybe I should get a pet.

Don’t get me wrong. I have support, for which I am grateful, but my sadness, my loneliness, my fears, and my worries are mine alone, and right now they are overwhelming.

I recently read about an Indian guy who went to a psychiatrist. They didn’t even give him a chance to share his problems. The doctor seemed annoyed and distracted by their phone. Within five minutes, they not only shut down the man and sent him on his way, but also put him off seeking help from another doctor.

Realizing one needs help is a big thing, and then doing something about it is an even bigger step in a country where mental health carries so much stigma attached to it. Yet the doctor didn’t take that into account and was dismissive.

I wouldn’t be surprised if people who sought help for mental health struggles were labelled crazy because India still has a long way to go in accepting anxiety, depression, and panic attacks as very human struggles.

Hearing that things are changing in urban settings is heartening, as more and more people are taking these issues seriously.

For me, crying, laughing, grieving, and celebrating are not signs of a weak personality. Instead, they are signs of loving deeply and not being afraid of my emotions, or of openly expressing them.

More from Yana:

🎈What Does It Really Mean to Have a Beautiful Spirit?

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