Author: Christine Gutierrez www.cosmiclife.com
I remember noticing that something wasn’t right with my uncle when I was seven years old. His outward cheerful attitude didn’t silence my intuition. I knew something was wrong. I remember seeing him in his room more often than not. He barely dated, if ever, and had few friends. I remember hearing whispers that he drank. The issue became a silent issue, like many issues often do, especially in Latino households. I am of Puerto Rican decent and was raised in a middle to low income neighborhood in Bushwick, Brooklyn. I was never engaged in serious conversations about depression and addiction, nor did I ever hear them discussed at family gatherings. My uncle’s depression was ignored and deemed as laziness, suggesting that nothing was wrong with him.