Ashna K.'s Story:
In South Asian culture, mental health “doesn’t exist”, and if it does, it’s hidden and never talked about. But mental health can be messy and, without proper attention and support, it can affect lives in ways that cannot be undone. Before you continue reading, please remember this is my life and I do not blame my dad for what he did. I blame the stigma around mental health that discourages help-seeking behaviour and instead, blames individuals that are sick and in need of support. You wouldn’t blame the cancer patient who decides to quit chemotherapy because it makes them feel absolutely terrible, right? The same goes here.
My dad was my first exposure to mental health. I learned of his addiction when he’d get angry at me for hiding his cigarette packs. I learned of his depression when, no matter how much I’d beg, he didn’t have the energy to drive me to school. I learned of his anxiety when we’d miss birthday parties and social gatherings because he couldn’t go out today. Unfortunately, I learned of his schizophrenia after it was too late. The noticeable side-effects of his medications caused him anxiety, and the fear of judgement pushed him further away. Until one day, he became a part of the small percentage of individuals with schizophrenia that have a violent episode. This is where my mental health journey begins.
When I was 14 years old, my dad assaulted me physically and with a knife. I have 22 scars and live with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anorexia, and body dysmorphia. To this day, I still relive the trauma through flashbacks and nightmares. I still carry a lot of guilt and self-blame for what happened. Like I said, I don’t blame my dad. Individuals with schizophrenia are far more likely to harm themselves than others, even though the media and news would like for us to believe otherwise. I choose to be an ally, and I hope you do to. At the very least, please be mindful of your judgements as I share my story.
My trauma served as the catalyst for what follows. Although I was lucky in that I received counselling and lots of support for my trauma, in my second year of university, I started to decline. I began to have suicidal thoughts. I didn’t understand why they started and how I went from the “perfectionist” to wanting to die. I turned to dieting and exercise to try to regain a sense of control. I thought, “maybe if I was skinny, people wouldn’t notice my scars”. I abused diuretics and laxatives. The number on the scale defined my worth completely. I hated my body so much that I would pull and pinch at it through tears every night, wishing I could have any other body but my own. It wasn’t until I collapsed at the gym and was rushed to the hospital that I realized how toxic my lifestyle had become. The emergency doctor told me I had a severe hypoglycemic attack and that I could have gone into a coma. That’s when it hit me, I wasn’t regaining control – I was killing myself. It was then that something clicked inside me and I realized I needed to ask for help. I started cognitive behavioural therapy, I surrounded myself with positive people, and for the first time, I prioritized self-care.
My biggest piece of advice, if I can give any, is to ask for help. I told myself a hundred times, “you aren’t sick enough”, “you don’t need help”, “get over it” – but once I got over that, no other voice mattered. No matter what anyone says, you are worthy of help and care. You are worthy of recovery. You just need to ask for it.
