Coping with mental illness when it’s culturally considered taboo

By Danna Fakhoury, AJ+ Global Engager for North America

This post is part of AJ+’s ongoing conversation about mental health, how different communities deal with it and who’s getting left out of the conversation.

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I grew up with the notion that mental illness was taboo. My inner conflicts were mine to deal with and conquer in private. I am the daughter of Jordanian immigrants who knew war first-hand and spent their lives as minorities, first as Christians in a predominately Muslim region, and now as distinctively foreign people in a largely white population. Relatives often reminded me that my life as a California-born Arab-American was much easier than the life my family had left behind, and I knew they were right. So what could possibly lead me to have a mental illness?

The day I graduated from my university was also the day I faced the deepest heartbreak of my life, when the relationship that I imagined would last for the rest of my life suddenly ended. My mind was flooded with emotions and I became obsessed with figuring out my next steps. I finally had the security that comes with an education, but the security I felt from being in a committed relationship was gone. I was back to square one, and nosy aunts and concerned elders seemed to enjoy reminding me of my impending ‘expiration date’ with questions of marriage and impromptu matchmaking efforts. I remember waking up one morning, soon after the breakup, with severe pain in my chest. I assumed the worst, thinking I was suffering from a heart attack. The pain didn’t end and the uncertainty was overwhelming. My dad worriedly handed me an aspirin and considered calling an ambulance. A phone call to my mother eased my mind when she suggested it might be anxiety. I became increasingly aware of each breath and stabbing pain, almost as if it was done as an act of meditation.

‘You do not have anxiety’

I settled for visiting the family medicine practice of a relative after failed attempts to reach my own doctor. My meeting with him felt more like an odd family reunion filled with small talk and unasked questions than a doctor’s visit. He administered an electrocardiogram and the results came back clear all three times. I suggested to him that it might be anxiety. He became defensive about my self-diagnosis: “I’ve seen you get onstage and address hundreds of people. YOU do not have anxiety.” He quickly wrote it off, not realizing that mental illness affects people of a variety of different cultural, societal and economic backgrounds.

Weeks later, I was diagnosed with anxiety disorder. Heartbreak may have catalyzed it, but anxiety is an ongoing battle I deal with even today. It is a real thing. I find it most helpful to tackle my worries head-on and eliminate the sources of my anxiety. I talk about what and how I feel rather than bottling it up as I often did in the past. My diagnosis gave me a voice and newfound strength. It made me love and appreciate myself more than ever. It allowed me to be real.

Beyond a Western problem

The practice of dismissing mental illness or labeling it as shameful extends beyond my family. The stigma associated with it places a heavy burden on the lives of Arabs across the MENA region and those living in the diaspora. Arab society cherishes reputation and honors it at every cost. Each checkmark on the list of illnesses, short-comings and oddities taints what is held to be sacred. Mental illness isn’t only reserved for those coping with a traumatic experience or unfavorable genes — it is indiscriminate and extends beyond a Western problem and influence.

When talking with my family and the larger Arab community, I try to emphasize the concept that mental illness is normal and affects the world’s population indiscriminately. My experience that day at the doctor’s office was the first front of a continuing battle, one that I am fighting to win.