By Pata Suyemoto By Susie Reece
This creative storytelling piece was co-authored for a co-presentation at the 2023 American Association of Suicidology.
When I was twelve,
my diagnosis was
major depression.
When I was nineteen,
my diagnosis was
major depression.
At sixteen, I attempted
suicide.
At fifteen, I attempted
suicide.
At thirty-five my diagnosis included
dissociative disorder,
not otherwise specified.
At forty, I took
nineteen pills to combat
chronic and severe major
depression,
and complex PTSD.
At nineteen, I took
Four bottles of pills to combat
chronic and severe major
Depression,
and complex PTSD
Perhaps, this is not surprising
since my aunt died by suicide,
my uncle faced serious depression, and
my mother had bipolar disorder.
Perhaps, this is not surprising
since my father died by suicide,
And took the life of my abusive
Stepmother when I was only ten.
One could say that genetics is
the cause of
our mental illness.
This is a lie.
Here our stories diverge
But for a bit,
Yet deception remains interwoven.
In 1942, my dad and his family were
imprisoned in a camp
in Topaz Utah.
Historical Trauma and racism
silenced him.
He became
Reclusive.
In 1910, Korea was invaded,
Our culture stripped from us
Our way of life supplanted.
My family was filled with angst and
Anxiety and Fear from the other Our near erasure made us withdraw
We can only wonder,
what impact
this has on us.
And although I grew up solidly
middle class, I also grew up in
a white community where I was taunted
and called chink and soy sauce.
My childhood was disjointed
Punctuated by pain that split
My life across spaces and places
And people who never quite
accepted me as me
I was bullied in junior high.
My mom was the
crazy divorced lady.
My sister’s friend was forbidden from
coming to our house.
I was bullied by family whose skin
Didn’t tan quite like mine
I was the daughter of a monstrous ghost
A reminder of horror and shame
My mother also told me not to stand
with my legs apart.
“It’s not lady-like,”
she said.
My grandmother said the same
But closing my legs didn’t stop
my cousin from
molesting me at six.
Nor did it stop me from suffering
Sexual harassment, assault, and
Being blamed by way of sexual stereotypes
Or at sixteen, a supervisor from
groping me.
Not to mention the onslaught of
catcalls and innuendos.
I stood at the bar waiting for a
Drink
When asked by a stranger about
my body
The shock of what he said stays with me
Til this day
A “normal” womanhood,
one might say.
This too is a lie.
Our history, always against us
The media weaponizing race and
Sex
To make us villainous temptresses
Who always asked for it
I grew to hate myself.
What was there to love?
After all, I was ridiculed for
my race and attacked for
my gender.
I scoured my skin as a child
Trying to scrub away the color
Hoping the soap and scalding
water
Could cleanse my pain away
When I came out as
bisexual, that too
was cause for pain.
Being sexualized and demonized
Has put my life in danger
It taught me not to trust the truth
In high school, I hid this
from my friends and my family.
I hid this
from the therapists in
the hospital they put me in.
To speak of my sexuality
Meant to be the object of hatred
Or the recipient of violence
No one ever said,
perhaps your depression and
PTSD are normal
reactions to racism, sexism,
homophobia, and hatred.
Perhaps,
you are not sick.
Perhaps,
your despair is not an illness.
Perhaps,
This is our truth.
Perhaps,
We are not alone.
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