Marina's Reclaiming Mental Health Story

As I sat on the kitchen floor holding the bottle of pills, my cat Sierra came over for some attention. I set the bottle down and held her, crying. A few days later, still feeling emotionally vulnerable, I determined the exact day I would end my life. I was in 6th grade.

I was adopted from Guatemala at 8 months old and have always felt a sense of abandonment and struggled to recognize my self-worth. My single mother worked hard at her job and found good care for me when she had to work. I loved my daycare, but every day when my mom dropped me off, I worried that she wouldn’t come back. When I got older and was allowed to stay home alone after school, I felt overwhelmed with anxiety and anger if my mom didn’t answer her phone right away when I called. By the time I reached her, I would scream at her, throw things, or stab the walls with scissors. Once, I picked up a small (but not light!) cat perch and threw it against the wall. The hole remains today, a reminder of angrier times and also as a cause for occasional humor as we see our solution to the damage - placing a wall sticker that says “Peace” to cover the spot.

I was always aware that I was different from my mother and my many relatives. They were white while I was Latina. There were very few Hispanic children in my elementary school, and I was sometimes singled out with cruel comments. “Why does your skin look like dirt?” These comments hurt, and while my mom was angry on my behalf, I sensed that she couldn’t really understand how these comments made me feel.

Then I was diagnosed with learning disabilities. Now, in addition to feeling ugly, I felt stupid.  I dreaded the days when I went to the learning center, embarrassed by being pulled out of class. I hated feeling different and struggled to manage my anger.

You might think I had a tough home life, but that was not the case. I have a loving mother and extended family, a nice house, attended good schools and had many friends. My grandparents were very important to me, especially my Papa. We always had a unique connection. He made me feel loved unconditionally. One of my favorite memories of my Papa was when we were visiting my grandparents in Florida when I was a little girl. I was in the pool, and wanted someone to come in with me, so Papa dove in. He was a chubby man, and the dive created huge waves. I thought it was so funny! He called me “Princess” and made me feel like family and he had total confidence in me. He would tell my mother that adopting me was the best thing that she ever did. 

My Papa’s death when I was in fourth grade was devastating and left me feeling sad and empty. Sometimes, I wanted to be with him in heaven, to end the emotional turmoil in my head. 

By sixth grade, life felt so hopeless that I decided the only solution was suicide.

One of my classmates told my guidance counselor that she was worried about me and I admitted that I had a plan to end my life. My mom took me to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital. It was a long afternoon and evening. I answered questions from nurses about what had happened, whether I used drugs or drank alcohol, whether I felt safe at home. I answered the same questions for a doctor who was checking my physical symptoms. I waited and waited to provide them with a urine sample (many cups of apple juice later I was finally ready, but needed my mom to hold the cup for me - we still laugh about me peeing all over her hand). Then I waited some more for a psychiatrist to come talk with me. I talked a bit about how I was feeling, about my grief over my Papa’s death, about how I felt like I didn’t quite belong anywhere, but after many hours, the psychiatrist and my mom decided I was safe to go home.

I wasn’t. A week later, I told my therapist I was hearing voices in my head telling me to end my life, and I ended up back in the emergency room. This time, I was more honest about my feelings and the depth of my hopelessness. I was admitted to an inpatient, locked psych unit. 

I spent the first night on a mattress on the floor, trying to sleep without much success. The next day, my mom came to visit. We spent several hours in a run-down visiting room surrounded by toys and books for younger kids. I cried and begged to go home. We talked about why it was best for me to stay until I could feel safe, and I eventually calmed down. We laughed about silly things, and I was allowed to use my phone so I could text a couple of my friends. 

I remember feeling sad and homesick. I remember feeling bored, I remember resenting some of the restrictions I thought were stupid (all of the strings had to be removed from my hoodies – because apparently strings are dangerous). I also remember the good things. I knew that I was safe, that I could not harm myself. My mother was able to visit every day. 

I was discharged after a week. I was not ready to just jump back into classes and homework and friendships. One night, I again told my mother that I did not see any reason to stay alive. There just seemed like no way that I would ever feel anything but miserable. It wasn’t until my mother said, “If you end your life, I would have to end mine too so that we could be together,” that I started to realize that my life had value. I had felt like I was the only one experiencing intense pain, but I had been blind to my mother’s experience of watching me deteriorate in front of her eyes.

My suicidal impulses faded but I still struggled. I hated school and by halfway through 8th grade I had missed almost 50 days and was planning to drop out. There were efforts to connect me with different counselors at school, to allow me to eat lunch with a staff member rather than in the cafeteria, to let my therapist meet with me at school, but none of this made enough of a difference.

The district finally agreed to let me transfer to a therapeutic school, the Walker Beacon School. As soon as I walked into my new 8th grade class of four students, I knew this would be a much better place for me. The entire staff was trained to help. I was permitted to leave class any time I was overwhelmed and needed a break. One of the counselors would go for a walk with me or sit and let me vent until I was calm enough to go back to class. I met with my clinician several times a week and I knew she had my back (even after I threw a glass jar at her in a fit of anger). My new friends were not put off by my bursts of anger because they were also learning to regulate their emotions. Things were still difficult, but I felt that everyone around me was there to help rather than judge.

Even more important in changing the direction of my life was meeting my new therapist, Jamie. I remember sitting in the waiting room when this beautiful Black woman walked in, dressed in comfortable, colorful clothing. She walked right up, smiled, and shook my hand. I felt her warmth and her humor, and I suspected she would not be disturbed if a few swear words came out of my mouth. As we followed Jamie up a set of stairs I turned back to my mom and gave her thumbs up. This one was going to work out. 

With Jamie, there was no judgment, just understanding. I was finally allowed to express my true feelings - the deeply felt fear of abandonment, my dark moods, my suicidal thoughts and self-destructive behavior, my feelings of inadequacy due to my learning disabilities. Jamie helped me realize that I needed to stop running away from my problems and instead talk about them. She helped me realize there was a brighter future for me, one that I could manage on my own using my inner strength. It was so helpful to have someone (besides my mother, because mothers always say those kinds of things) tell me that I was smart and strong and capable. I learned to see those things in myself. This therapist saved my life. 

With time, I found increased self-acceptance. Instead of wishing I looked like my White friends with their pale skin and straight hair, I began to love being Latina. I stopped spending hours straightening my hair and let my natural curls show. I also learned to seek out friends who could accept me for me, moodiness and all. I started to understand that my birth mother’s decision to place me for adoption may have been a gesture of love, not abandonment.

Feeling stronger and more confident about myself made me more aware of times when friends and classmates were struggling. I began sharing successful strategies I had learned in therapy to help them. I became an unofficial peer mentor and realized I liked helping other students. 

During high school I got a job as a teacher’s assistant in an after-school program working with six- and seven-year-olds, many with behavioral challenges. One of my favorite students was a second-grade boy who had frequent outbursts. Sometimes we just sat and talked. I explained why his behavior was not acceptable and gave him time to calm down before we talked about how to get him back into the group play. 

As a result of the obstacles I have overcome and the experiences that shaped me, I now know I am a strong, determined, compassionate person who has the drive to pursue a career helping others. I am currently attending college to earn a degree in social work so I can help behaviorally challenged adolescents struggling with emotional setbacks.

I try to tell my own story with the hope that doing so can change the perception of mental illness. I want people to understand that a person who suffers from depression or anxiety or who struggles to regulate their emotions is still a person who might be funny, smart, compassionate, accomplished. That person can be an effective employee, a good friend, a parent, a teacher - with the right supports people can achieve despite, or even because of, their mental health issues. 

Life continues to present challenges and there are times of the year when I struggle with depression. March is especially hard because that is when Papa died. But I have learned to fight my way through the difficult times, knowing that those days will pass. Sharing my story with you today helps.  So, thank you.

About The Author:

Marina has struggled with depression, anxiety, and self-harming behavior since childhood. Adopted from Guatemala and bullied at school, she often felt like she didn't belong. With the support of her mother and her mental health providers, she has faced her challenges head-on. She is currently a junior social work major at Simmons College. She is a dedicated mental health advocate, committed to sharing her own story to decrease the dangerous stigma associated with mental health conditions. She hopes to work with children and adolescents after graduation.