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I started having panic attacks when I was five. A bit young in my opinion but still I remember the day so clearly. I went to the beach with my family and when the day was over we all went to the bathroom to change into regular clothes. I did not want to wear what my mother picked out for me and instead brought the outfit I wanted to wear. This little thing made my mom furious and she started yelling bloody murder at me in public. I started breaking down, hyperventilating, crying, and every limb in my body locked. I couldn’t move, I sat on the concrete floor, crying, trying to catch my breath. My mom was apologizing profusely when she realized something was seriously wrong. The paramedics arrived because no one knew what was going on. They said I was just dehydrated. Nothing about a panic attack. My panic attacks have continued to this day and they are always this severe. To make matters worse, I developed anxiety and depression soon after my panic attacks started. My parents have gotten used to it now, they don’t comfort me like they used to. Instead, they choose to yell at me and tell me I’m crazy, they tell me I have to control my emotions or I will never get over my phase. So, I try my best to hide my emotions around my parents, I go to other people for help instead of them, and I developed some healthy and unhealthy coping methods.

I don’t have ill feelings towards my parents for how they handle my panic attacks. They’re immigrants, from their country, mental illness was not taught and emotions are seen as a weakness. They can’t understand what they were never taught. Of course, I wish things were different and that I had parents that would comfort me and calm me down but I empathize with how they grew up. I know they have mental health issues too but they don’t understand it and choose to bury it, only to hurt themselves. They were taught to bury their feelings and they tried to teach it to me. It has affected how I have grown and how they have. I love my parents and I know they are doing their best, now that I am an adult I understand they were only trying to help me despite all the pain it caused.

It is hard having a chronic illness in an immigrant household. I didn’t even know my mental health issues were a chronic illness until this class taught me. We are not alone, generational trauma is hard and I know so many other people deal with the consequences too. So here is my lesson to you, we are not our illness, we can learn to do better for our children, and to forgive those who meant to do us no harm.