Mommy Finger, Baby Finger

As September comes to a close so does National Suicide Prevention Month. But the work to raise awareness on this topic does not end. Please note: This story contains descriptions of self-harm.

I have a tattoo of a palm tree on one of my thighs. I got it when I visited Roatán, an island off the coast of Honduras, with my brother a few years ago. I got it to cover the scars on my leg I felt so embarrassed about. When the tattoo artist was working on my leg he joked, “What happened to you? Were you in a gang fight?” I was too embarrassed to tell him what happened, so I laughed and shook my head. The truth is, my story is too raw to be softened. 

I was about 6 or 7 years old the first time I felt I needed saving. My pain was too difficult to explain, but I remember looking out the window next to the bunk bed I shared with my brother and begging God to take me to heaven. I didn’t know it then, but it was the first time I struggled with suicide ideation. I also had a recurring nightmare that haunted me – I’d be playing or doing normal child things, when I would hear someone malicious taunting me. I’d wake up so afraid and I’d pull the covers over my head. 

The pain continued in the form of anxiety throughout my childhood, and it got heavier to carry during my teenage years. I was smart, talented, and an overachiever in school, but at home, I would self-harm. I learned to hide my depression, cuts, and burns, but my mental health worsened in college as I dealt with panic attacks. I also started having nightmare visions (or premonitions) that would leave me feeling drained and my family afraid. Life was so hard for me. There were many times at night I’d walk to a nearby church at night and cry. 

Depression is not something I’ve completely defeated. Most days, I’m okay, but the heavy days can be so exhausting and overwhelming. It would be so much easier to say that I’ve only survived one suicide attempt, but I’ve survived two in my life. It would also be much easier to tell this story if I didn’t at times still wrestle with my thoughts. It’s hard to confess this because I know that some might judge, get worried or panic. But I believe that therapy, my faith, my loving church community and my friends have facilitated my recovery. I have found my safe spaces. The truth is, I don’t want to suffer in silence ever again, and I don’t want anyone else to feel like they have to carry their dark secrets alone like I did. I grew up believing that I had to suppress my emotions because I wanted to be a “good girl.” 

For a while, I thought it was much safer to be quiet. But the invisible walls around my heart were killing me. Sometimes, I still wish I’d been able to talk to my parents when I struggled with my pain, but that wasn’t something my immigrant Latino parents did. I wasn’t allowed to cry, either. I remember the day I opened up to a family member about my suicidal thoughts – they called me “selfish.” After my second attempt, another family member said, “How could you let it get this far?”

It’s why I hid. I feared: If I let people in to see the real me, what will they think of me? Would they leave me?

You would think that within the church I could have confessed my shame and struggles. Instead, I experienced more shame. I remember the day I opened up to a group of women at church. One woman swore I was struggling because I wasn’t “giving it to Jesus.” Another woman, angrily said, “You saying you’ve struggled with this since childhood is like saying that MY GOD is not powerful.” 

The unwavering strength God instilled in me, just like the palm tree – I can see that now. Looking back over my story, I see that He gave me courage to speak and unveil my truth even if it was uncomfortable. Eventually, I found my community. I also know this now: I am not alone. I am so loved. I was born to live free, open and unashamed in this beautiful and sometimes messy life. 

I currently also work as the communications manager at a mental health organization for young adults. Speaking my truth has given me strength. Last week, I sat with a group of young girls at church struggling with hope and my story helped them confess their own shame. There was something so intimate about that experience. I don’t know if you are currently struggling, but if you are, I will share with you what I told them: Even in your brokenness, you are loved. Come out of hiding. 

If you or someone you know needs help, please call or text the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988 or visit 988lifeline.org.