Where Are The Asian-American Mental Health Stories?

I know I’m not alone. But it can feel like I am.

Content warning: suicidal ideation

This past September marked my one-year anniversary working for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline and other programs at the Mental Health Association of New York City (MHA-NYC). As director of communications, I spend my time educating the public, encouraging action to help others, and spreading the word about available mental health resources. I’ve had the privilege of meeting brilliant people and creating work I feel proud and passionate about. And though I’ve worked in real estate, television, local government, and as a tutor, this is the first job I’ve had that I can truly say I’ve loved.

But I’ve also been haunted by my hypocrisy and fear.

Until these words are public, only a handful of people in my life — including none of my work colleagues or my own family — know that four years ago, I was diagnosed with recurrent severe depression. Even fewer people know that I take two antidepressants a day, and that my bathroom cabinet is jammed with vials of discarded SSRIs and sleeping pills. There have been months that I have sat at my desk at a mental health nonprofit promoting public health and stories of hope and recovery while battling back the voice in my head…