Why Do Latinas Have the Highest Suicide Rate in America?”I was supposed to be perfect, and I couldn’t live up to that.”MOST POPULARHere’s What Happened When I Squeezed My Size-12 Body Into Kendall And Kylie’s Swimwear LineModel Posts Photo Of Naked Woman At The Gym To Mock Her BodyThis Is Apparently The Most Unpopular Home Makeover From HGTV’s ‘Fixer Upper’GETTYBy Lilliam RiveraFeb 18, 20151.9kAccording to a 2010 study, suicide is the third leading cause of death for Latinos age 15 to 24. More shocking? Only 1 in 11 Latinos ever seeks treatment for mental health issues. In fact, compared to other ethnic/gender groups, our sisters have had the highest rates of depression symptoms and suicide rates for more than 40 years. What is stopping us from getting help?According to Dr. Luis H. Zayas, dean of the School of Social Work at the University of Texas at Austin, who has dedicated his life to studying Latina teens and suicide rates, many of those who suffer from depression are U.S.- born but have immigrant parents who come from a culture where it’s unheard of to ask for help.And while we’re often able to navigate two worlds — our family and our work, our two cultures — sometimes those balancing acts can fool us into thinking we can take care of our depression on our own. For many of us, there is the shame of being labeled a “loca,” of believing depression is a luxury that only rich, white people can afford, and of thinking that airing family drama in public is a sin. Vanessa Gallego is one Latina who grew up thinking just that. Gallego, 32, shares her story of how intense pressure to be “perfect” instead left her feeling suicidal and not knowing where to turn for help. Here’s how she battled depression and bi-polar disorder — and how she finally found the right treatment for her. I was voted the Most Outgoing in high school. I was awarded Most Valuable Player in volleyball. In my sophomore year I was class president. My parents were still together. We had a small but thriving import/export wholesale business. My three sisters were all great. Everything looked perfect, but it wasn’t. I just knew how to hide it.There was this constant negative thinking on heavy rotation in my head. I was very critical of myself. No matter what I did, I was never good enough. That’s when I first started to feel hopeless. Although I was surrounded by my friends and was active in school, I felt like I didn’t belong. I had this outgoing persona, but I was depressed. My parents, with the little education they had, migrated to the U.S. from Mexico, became legal, and started their own business. They had done so much. Who was I to complain about feeling sad?That’s when I started to drink. It was the only way I could combat that feeling of anxiety, of believing that I wasn’t going to pass my classes even though I was doing well. Freshman year, I would wake up and drink orange juice and vodka and go to school. I started missing my first-period classes. My teachers noticed and confronted me. “You are doing the work but not showing up,” they said. I was so horrified, I promised to do better. And I did, for a time. I got into the University of Arizona. I worked part-time at my parents’ business and was in school. That was when I started to cut myself. It began with little things, like pinching myself or squeezing my nails into my thigh. It was a way for me to deal with my anxiety in public. In the privacy of my own room, I would take something sharp and let the blood flow. I can’t tell you what a relief that felt like to me. My anxiety and depression flowed out with that first cut.A lot of pressures were in my mind — I had to excel in school and please my parents. I wanted to be as good as my peers or better. I was lucky that my parents paid for my school, but I felt very guilty. My drinking got worse. Although I tried to drink only on the weekends, I was still messing up in school. Every semester I wouldn’t be able to finish a course or two. I thought I was a social drinker, but a social drinker wouldn’t get completely wasted. As I was finishing school, all of my fears grew worse.When I was a senior in college, I traveled to Mexico with my family to ring in the New Year. We stayed at our home in Sonora. The night it happened, we had just left a New Year’s party — likely because I was too intoxicated. My sisters and I were all having a nightcap in the kitchen. Everyone was in good spirits, excited about the New Year, except for me. The overwhelming feeling of unhappiness was taking over. I remember saying, “I can cut myself right here and nobody would notice.” My family laughed. They thought I was joking around, that I was just drunk. I thought, They really don’t know who I am inside. I left and went to my room. I took out the Smith and Wesson tactical knife that I had purchased six months before as a way to protect myself. Even though I was cutting during that time, I would have never used that knife for that purpose.I remember grabbing the

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