PLUR

PLUR

They didn’t tell me to not do it. They didn’t say I was wrong. They didn’t stop me midsentence, exclaiming, ‘That’s a terrible thought,’ and they never questioned my feelings.

Raving saved me.

I didn’t attend large, hyped festivals but rather underground, local, San Francisco raves. Beginning in middle school, I would leave the house, with or without permission, and head out by myself. I never told my parents where I was going.

The rave community was my family. It was the place where I, a stranger, was not only accepted, but also supported, no questions asked.

At the time, I identified as emo, and I liked it. I wore black exclusively. I listened to screamo. I began cutting, and doing so seemed to fit with my desired image. Being the suicidal, emo girl provided me with a sense of comfort. I had a label, an identity; I belonged somewhere. Other suicidal, emo kids saw and understood me, and sometimes, it didn’t feel like I was alone.

At raves, I met other people like me. Some people I encountered multiple times, others just once. We swapped stories. We shared our burdens. These conversations filled some of the emptiness inside of me. Knowing that someone valued my story—valued what I had to offer—was just enough to keep me afloat. After sharing my experience one night, I distinctly remember a girl stating, as if it were an undeniably truth, “You are so strong.” Until that point, I didn’t know how it felt for someone to be completely in awe of you.

I expressed my suicidal thoughts, my struggle with anxiety, my battle with depression, my fractured relationship with my mother—all things that society frowns upon and labels ‘bad’—and the rave community embraced me, responding not with condemnation but with respect. They reassured me that I was normal, that I was not alone. They gave me the hope that prevented me from taking my life.

My first suicidal thought occurred in fourth grade, and it managed to settle in and inhabit my mind for the next decade.

To me, life was not worth the pain. The gift of being alive didn’t seem to be a good enough reward for enduring the constant hatred I felt towards myself. The ensuing physical and emotional pain was overwhelming, and neither family nor friends were able to provide a safe and supportive outlet for me to express my emotions.

When I was younger, I constantly asked myself why I felt so hopeless and empty. I did not have the vocabulary to express what I was experiencing, which was later diagnosed to be depression and anxiety, as well as ADD.

My parents were not resources for help. My mother, an immigrant to the United States, held me to extremely high standards and, oftentimes, unreasonable expectations. She wanted me to be normal, to fit in seamlessly with those around me. I am able to understand why she felt this way—she wanted me to have a childhood like my peers. She didn’t want me to be excluded from friendships because I was different.

However, this was a toxic environment to grow up in. When I did feel “different,” I didn’t ask for help. When I felt depressed, anxious, or the effects of having ADD, I didn’t reach out. I was a kid. I didn’t know any better than to do what my mother told me. So, feeling suicidal, I continually kept it to myself.

My mother not only wanted me to be “normal,” she also wanted me to look a certain way and perform to the highest academic standards. At school, bullying was common. My peers called me too fat. They called me not Asian enough or too Asian. I switched schools often, and friends were hard to come by. When I went home, the bullying continued. My mother called me stupid, fat, and lazy. She prioritized schoolwork before sleep, and as a result I pulled my first all-nighter in third grade.

The stresses of school and home life, accompanied by depression and anxiety and ADD, made my mental state chaotic and unhealthy for the majority of my adolescence. I would stay awake for days, to the point of hallucination. Afterwards, I would sleep for up to 22 hours a day. Looking back, this was the practical equivalent of killing myself. Throughout this time, I never asked for help.

During my junior year of high school, I had a panic attack while taking a math test. My teacher sent me to the principal, who required my mom to hospitalize me, which she did.

Recovery was brutal.

I felt like I was drowning, and everyone said swim harder.

In the moment, someone telling me to try harder infuriated me. I could barely make it through my day, and trained professionals kept telling me that I had to do more to help myself. Of course, they were correct.

I would force myself to get up in the morning. The next day I could make it to the bus. The next day I could make it to the school gates. Then I could make it into class. Then I could make it through an entire class period without having to excuse myself due to anxiety. Finally, I could make it all the way until 3 o’clock.

I don’t rave much anymore. While living at home, raving sustained me and kept me sane. Here at school, with more independence and separation from my mother, I feel more free. I am able to study, take voice lessons, work, spend time with my boyfriend, and hang out with my cat. Yes, I still struggle with bouts of depression and anxiety, and I always will.

However, it is true that I am strong. I can see that now. Walking around everyday, people don’t know my history. I like to share my story, not to show off my strength, but to help others realize that they, too, are just as strong.

#facingmentalhealth