american depression

whose pain do we recognize?

Content Warning: This post explores aspects of mental health and contains discussion of self-harm and suicide. Please read with care.

If you are in crisis, call or text 988 (or 1-800-273-8255) for help in the U.S. You are not alone.

I did a bad thing: I clicked on a Reddit thread about me. It’s Creator 101 to avoid snark forums and websites at all costs—but I had a moment of weakness, okay? I justified it as digital reputation management—it was on the first page of search results! I had to know! What if a future employer googled me?? But the truth is: I was already feeling bad about myself that evening; it didn’t take much to tip me into harmful behaviors readily disguised as “productive” actions.

The snark was largely predictable—insufferable, victim complex, low EQ, has nothing interesting to contribute, thinks she’s special when she’s not—but one comment in particular caught my eye:

Out of all the snark, this one stuck out to me because of the unstated assumptions behind the sentence. For who is Elizabeth Wurtzel? Wurtzel famously declared she “made a career out of my emotions.” In The New York Times’ book review of Prozac Nation, Michiko Kakutani wrote she wanted to “shake the author [at times], and remind her that there are far worse fates than growing up during the ‘70s in New York and going to Harvard.” Wurtzel had frequent breakdowns, abused substances, and self-harmed.

And Cat Marnell? She also made a literary career out of being “a pillhead, a doctor-shopper, and a beauty expert whose own stunning looks are under constant assault by her lifestyle, which even at its least druggy is basically nonstop self-harm.”

The snarker likely didn’t think very hard about why she¹ doubted I was involved in “Elizabeth Wurtzel/Cat Marnell activities,” but I highly suspect it’s due, at least in part, to the stereotypes which precede me. Because she wasn’t saying that I couldn’t write like Wurtzel or Marnell—which I would agree with, as they are quite singular voices—but instead that she doubted my involvement in the activities in which they engaged. Presumably breakdowns, substance abuse, and self-harm—all in front of glamorous backdrops courtesy of the Ivy League and New York City.

I was reminded of one of my law school recommendation letters:

My recommender had intended it as epistolary flattery. And it largely was! But I also remember reading this paragraph and deflating. Because they were right: I was very aware of the stereotypes that pervade our modern culture. I went out of my way to speak up in discussions, straddle the line between nerd and ABG in dress, and otherwise play against type. And here was this letter, reifying those molds even as it insisted I broke them.

No matter where I went or what I did, the stereotypes of my various identities would precede me. Shy, bookish, Asian girl. Obedient. Quiet. Boring.

After the lawyer-turned-journalist Vivia Chen fell into a deep workplace depression, she was denied short-term disability by her insurer because she supposedly lacked “severe symptoms (such as psychomotor agitation or retardation, deficits in grooming or eye contact… intractable crying spells).” Basically, she didn’t appear depressed enough.

Chen writes of the incident:

It seemed that I should have fashioned myself as an unkempt, sobbing, hysterical mess for my depression to be taken seriously.

But that is not my style. Nor, I suspect, is it the style of many who are depressed. Though I had many very dark moments–when I felt gutted, defeated, and wished for nonexistence—I seldom broke down in front of others. Whether that is a vestige of some sort of Asian stoicism or my innate nature, I cannot say. All I know is that my parents kept their emotions under the lid, and I’m not one to let it all spill out. I’m also the type of person who always combs her hair even in the bluest depths. Yes, I’m vain.

I, too, am vain and proud and imbued with near-overwhelming terror at the prospect of “losing face” (丟臉 diū liǎn). “Face” is a fundamental cornerstone of Chinese behavior but doesn’t have an easy American analogue. To “lose face” is more than simply embarrassing—it is deeply shameful, reflects not just on you but your family, and isn’t easily remedied. This aversion to “losing face” always operates in the background of my mind. It’s one of the reasons I die a little on the inside when I see creators talk about blacking out, hangovers, and diarrhea. Have I been there? Of course. Could I post about it? Not without tripping my “losing face” wire.

The end result is this fairly sanitized public persona—a personal brand. I am me, but I also am not me. I am a simulacrum: an even-keeled (but also boring) projection which undoubtedly contributed to being seen as “professional” in the workplace. I suppose I should be grateful for this; there are far worse fates than being seen as “professional.” But at the same time, this perception assumes a level of psychological immunity which simply can’t exist—and isn’t supported by data.

More than 45% of lawyers experience depression during their career, compared with 6.7% of the general population. Lawyers reporting high levels of stress are 22 times as likely to have suicidal ideation as lawyers reporting low levels of stress. The same survey found that lawyers who identified as Asian thought about self-harm the most out of all racial categories.

Growing up, I was always told that admissions committees and employers and other gatekeepers were looking for reasons to reject me—so I couldn’t provide them with one. This feeling of continually being on the verge of expulsion is the immigrant’s curse. I’m not surprised my parents beat this stringent logic into me; the U.S. immigration system, after all, does not signal to immigrants welcome. (Even less so now.) There is no room for error, no allowances for deviance.

So how does one signal they’re in mental distress, that they need help? Perform depression in the same way one performs competence? If I stop showering and post incoherent rants on TikTok, will that finally imbue my inner turmoil with substantiality? If I hint at engaging in “Elizabeth Wurtzel/Cat Marnell activities,” will that finally transmute my silence into cognizable, marketable self-harm?

It’s a strange bind: perform depression in the exact way Western culture conceives of it, and face rejection from Western society; or remain sufficiently stoic, so that others doubt the authenticity of your pain. The catch-22 of minoritized depression.