“People know,” I tell them.
“What do you want to do about it?” Emilio asks.
I square my shoulders. “Call a press conference,” I tell him.
“Are you sure, mija?” Marta asks.
“I’m positive.” I’ve never been more positive about anything in my life.
“Okay,” she says softly.
“I’ll get ready,” I say. And I go to shower, and then I go home and change my clothes and put on makeup. I put on a pretty outfit with short sleeves, and I show up at the press conference.
The room goes silent when I walk in with my sisters, their husbands and boyfriends, and with the Reeds and their wives behind me. Ryan stands with his family, his mother included, and the fact that they are here, too, catches me right in the gut. They must have come straight from the hospital. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. I have to keep it together.
I step up to the podium.
“I’ll take questions now,” I say softly.
“Did you try to kill yourself, Ms. Vasquez?” someone asks.
“When I was fifteen years old, yes, I did. I had lost my birth parents, and I felt like their deaths were my fault. I found it hard to get over the loss of them, and I’m still not over it. I still have periods of grief and sometimes the guilt overwhelms me. But I get through it.”
“Do you take medication for your problems?” someone else asks.
“To which problems are you referring?”
“You mentioned depression and suicidal thoughts.”
“Whether or not I take medication is not relevant—”
“But it is,” the reporter shoots back. “America wants to know how you’re going to keep it together.”
“Do you know why I’m here today?” I ask the crowd of reporters.
Cameras click, cameramen adjust their lenses, and microphones are pushed closer.
I clear my throat so I can talk past the lump in it. “I’m here today because I want our fans to know that depression is a disease. It’s not a lack of mental fortitude or an emotional weakness.” I tap my chest. “If I had a problem with my heart, I would be urged to see a cardiologist. If I had a problem with my knee, someone would suggest that I get an anti-inflammatory for it. If my lungs didn’t work, I would see a pulmonologist and find what medical route I could take to get better.”
My voice gets louder because now I’m angry. “I’d like to know why it is that when someone is depressed, it becomes a problem about the person having a lack of character or a lack of fortitude or something to be embarrassed about. If someone seeks out medication for depression, that person grows stronger, because his or her illness is being treated. Depression is an illness, people. It’s not a lack of conviction and it’s not a lack of mental fortitude. It’s a disease. And it should be treated with just as much aggression as any other disease. So, yes, people who suffer from depression do often take medication.
“But my prescription history is none of your business, and if I did take medication, it would be none of your business, just like high blood pressure pills and insulin would be none of your business. Your only question to me should be ‘Are you getting treatment, Ms. Vasquez?’ Yes, I am getting treatment. My days are no longer dark, because I sought treatment. I didn’t look at my illness as a lack of self-awareness, a lack of mental acuity, or a lack of conviction. I looked at it as what it was. It was a medical issue. I got treatment. I am better.”
I clear my throat again. And the room is silent.
“My family and friends probably didn’t understand why I would agree to stand here and take questions on such a delicate subject. Here’s why.” I point to the monitor. “If you there at home feel like you have nothing left to live for, if you don’t have one thing to look forward to or a reason to get out of bed, there are treatments available. There are doctors who can help. Don’t stay home and not seek help because it makes you feel weak to ask for help. Ask. For. Help. Treat your brain with as much sympathy as you would treat your heart, lungs, or any other organ in your body that needs medication. Because isn’t it the same thing? If parts of our bodies are sick, we make them better by seeing the right kind of doctor. Go. Do it. Get better.” I look at my family, and Ryan. “It does get better. I promise.”
I hold up my arms. “I used to have ugly scars that I hid from the world. You’ve all seen them since they’ve now been plastered everywhere. They are still there, underneath the beautiful ink. What was once an ugly reminder of my darkest days are now full of color… full of hope, love, a future, and a past. Do not let depression define or control you.”
I give out a phone number for a counseling hotline I know does good work. Then I thank everyone for attending.
I walk off the stage and stop in front of Ryan. “How did I do?”
“Will you marry me?” he asks, tilting his head.
My heart bumps in my chest, but not with fear. “Yes.”
“When?”