“Coming Out”
On Wednesday, May 1, 2019, I “came out” to the world about my mental health.
My story, “My Mental Illness Did Not Prevent Me From Suceeding, But The Stigma Nearly Did” was published on a major outlet.
I had pitched my story in early February and was over the moon when the editor responded later that month. I had been eagerly anticipating its publication ever since.
There would be no turning back after this “Coming Out.” Sure, I had already told my story to my own social circles, but this was a national, even international, stage. I set out to tell my story to make myself an example, an advocate. At age 20, I had been desperate for an example of someone who was living well and happily with bipolar disorder. Now in my late 30’s, I put everything on the line to share this deeply personal story. I wanted it to reach the people who would need it the most.
The story did reach a big audience. My own facebook insights alone show 5,000 impressions and the visits to this blog have spiked.
But my heart has been heavy because an inflammatory subheading was run on the Facebook Mobile version of the story. I hate to repeat it, but it read:
“It took decades, but I have worked through the pain my Asian parents and culture caused me.” (AGAIN, THESE ARE NOT MY WORDS)
I was shocked. These words that were attributed to me, appearing just above my name. Each word a stinging slap in the face.
The editor, who had been so kind and encouraging to me, who herself is a person of color, had told me this story would run in honor of Asian American Heritage Month and Mental Health Awareness Month.
My heart dropped. How could they have summarized my story this way?
My own words in the article included:
“I needed my child to be proud of his culture and heritage. He would one day crave that connection to feel whole. I too needed my roots to stand firm. Through buckets of tears and with a vow to forever sever trauma from culture, I built relative peace.”
To sever trauma from culture. I do not blame my culture for my mental health condition. Instead, I’m fighting to take back my culture from the trauma in order to heal. I am doing this because I love my culture and heritage. I felt completely misunderstood.
My parents caused me pain, but they were also always there to catch me. My story, my words, do not omit that part. My father drove us across state lines for help, however misguided, however unsuccessful. My father pushed me beyond my breaking point but he also jumped on a flight to Beijing at a moment’s notice, crumbling into my arms with sobs when he saw the state I was in.
The subtitle omits all this and boiled it into a single inflammatory, click-bait worthy line disguised as my words. Impostoring as my voice that I have only just found.
I contacted my editor right away, begging for change. I breathed a sigh of relief when they told me they would update the line. I was grateful. I knew I was powerless. Hours passed, the subheading was still there. I checked obsessively, multiple times an hour. Those dreaded words are still there. Still tainting my name.
If I, as an informed reader, thought an Asian American had written those words, I would myself turn away. Stop reading and skip the article altogether. These words were taking away my credibility. Silencing my voice that I fought so hard to find.
Now, four days later. Those masquerading words still linger before my name online. My hope dwindles with each passing hour that they will ever leave me.
A technical glitch, they tell me. Specific to Facebook Mobile. It has them puzzled, they say.
What recourse do I have? What else can I do? I ask the editor to print a correction and wait, knowing I won’t hear anything until next week.
Like many times before, I pick myself up and keep fighting.
I keep writing.
