Therapy? Yup, We Got History...

Hola Mi Gente!

How y'all feeling today?

Now that I started this blog, I'm like,"Shit,B... for a chick who could barely call her mom back, how the fuck are you gonna maintain a blog?" And that's just me keeping it funky; cuz I'm notoriously corn flakes with everything and... everyone but, especially myself. I have never shown up or been fully committed to anything that involved me, having to give 100% to benefit...me. Just making the decision to go to therapy was difficult. To be honest, I was angry, and still kind of am; no shade.... because I know therapy is something I need to get better. I've always prided myself on how independent I am. I was placed in foster care when I was 13, but even though I lived in foster homes, I felt like I was on my own. I wouldn't go home for days at a time; carrying on in the village, or with whoever was the flavor of the week, out there, just doing the most. By the time I was 20, I had my own place; an A.A. and finishing my B.A., along with a good job. I've managed to pull off every one of my shenanigans solo, but the one thing I'm responsible for, myself, I can't even pull together. So, I'm finding it incredibly frustrating that now, I have to ask someone else for help in order to help myself. I'm no stranger to therapy though; we got history.

When I was 11, I was hospitalized for two months for an attempted suicide. No one knew what was happening to me behind closed doors,or the pain that I was feeling. I found my love for writing first in school; then I started writing at home. Books, music and writing were such an escape for me. Yet, even in those peaceful spaces, I had these overwhelming thoughts of wanting to die. I hated living, but felt terrible for having those thoughts because no one around me, had ever expressed anything of the sort. So, I just wrote it all down.

I cant tell you what made me snap, maybe because I was constantly fighting in and out of school; being bullied OR... being the bully, depending on which day of the week it was. I was tired of being touched and feeling like no one liked me. I was 11 and, fed up; as if an 11 year old is suppose to know what, "fed up," feels like... I will never forget that morning. I packed all my journals that I had written, about my abuse and all the thoughts I'd been having, and left them on my 6th grade teacher, Ms. Hartranft's desk. Then, I went to try to kill myself in the girl's bathroom. I remember tying the belt around my neck, and even in that same breath, thought, God, why did you give me these thoughts? But I didn't know anything except, how I felt, and a sense of urgency. With my name being called frantically over the loud speaker, the next thing I remember was walking into the main office and my dad being like-


"Mira muchacha del carriso... E que tu ta loqua?!"

"Si tu te quiere mata, hai tal highway; tirate."

Translation, "have you lost your mind little girl?; if you wanna kill yourself, there's the highway; throw yourself." 


I didn't understand it then, but as I got older I learned that mental health is taboo in the Latino community, hence why parents were uneducated about mental health illness, and didn't know the best ways to parent me. They didn't understand me, or better yet, couldn't. There was also much shame around my issues. My parents never expected in a million years, that their 11 year old daughter would be hospitalized for anything, let alone, depression. That "doesn't" happen in Dominican families...While upstate receiving treatment, I never spoke about my abuse because I felt no one would believe me. I tried to tell my parents in front of the doctors but, that didn't play out the way I dreamed. I was up there fucked up on meds, just as numb, as I was, at home. I was a 6th grader, I didn't know the importance of therapy, or of meds... I didn't even understand the severity of what I attempted to do... I was in pain so, I wanted to die... I didn't understand the confusion. And I was more mad I never got back my journals, to be quite honest. After I was discharged, I went to therapy for like a second but, my dad felt I didn't need it cuz, "yo no taba loqua," (Translation- I wasn't "crazy") and I promised I'd never do it again.... Right. 


I later had a second psych hospitalization while in high school, after having a mental breakdown in my math class. I was 14, out of the closet, and was going on a year in foster care. My relationship with my mother was non existent, and it remained that way till I was about 21 because I was gay. So, with all that I cracked, again. Only this time, I was older, smarter and knew what to say, not to stay longer. Although recommended, I didn't receive outpatient services because I didn't want them. I took myself off the Seroquel and the Prozac, and said, fuck that shit! I'm good. Aaaaand now here I am. For that past 11 months, I continued to say the same exact thing about the therapy,"Fuck that shit! I'm good. Pass me the blunt," cuz I was scared to live, but even more afraid to fight to live. 

But all the great, amazing and successful women I know, or at least the majority of them, who I confided in always encouraged me to go to therapy. They each kept saying, I gotta put in the effort, no one is gonna do it for me. That therapy has saved their lives. But its doing the work that I am afraid of; I never had to work for me. I am afraid that Ill give up on me. That I'll half ass it all; the blog, therapy.... life. 

Then I think, I owe myself so much more than that. I'm worth so much more than... half ass. Even if I don't believe the affirmations wholeheartedly, Imma say 'em, till I believe 'em. We spend so much time drilling the negative shit into our minds, that it's weird, uncomfortable, unfamiliar when we start to introduce these positive voices. This is the first time I've been open to talking to a therapist and possibly taking medications, because I'm not 11 anymore, when I didn't have a choice; I'm not 15, when I didn't know any better. I'm 24 years old and, I know I have the power to take back control of my life. Now, I just need the tools so,...

Therapy, here I am girl!

Thank you for letting me vent on ya screen and, being a part of my healing.

Stay Building
Stay Dope




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