EXPECTATIONS, MASKS, & VEILS: A Journey of Survival
- Julian Armaya
- Jun 27
- 3 min read
I don’t see mental health as a destination. It's not even a goal. To me, it is a journey. An ongoing, desperate, challenging journey, and, nonetheless, a worthwhile, and necessary one.
Julian Armaya is a 2-time cancer survivor, performing artist, writer, director, and producer. You can keep up with him and his projects by following him @Mr.Armaya.
I remember innocence. I remember wonderment. I remember fearlessness. Somewhere along the way, it all started being stripped away. Survival became the name of the game. Whether it was surviving the deep end of the pool I had no business diving into at 8 years old. Or whether it was the slew of abuses that became normal and commonplace: sexual, physical, mental, emotional, self hate, etc. I have been in survival mode since before I hit double digits. Then of course there was also bullying, body dysmorphia, depression, anxiety, suicide attempts, multiple cancers, and auto-immune diseases. Add to that, navigating the world as a BIPOC, first generation, queer, creative. My only choice was to survive, as silently as possible, because silence protected me. So survival is all I know. It’s my best friend, my anchor, my strength. There has always been, and always will be, something to survive, to overcome, to move past, to heal from.
Fortunately, in spite of the stigma surrounding mental health that I grew up with, particularly for men, I always had access to professional help. I’ve spent many an hour on the couch. Over the years and my time in therapy, my perspective on mental health has shifted though. I don’t see mental health as a destination. It's not even a goal. To me, it is a journey. An ongoing, desperate, challenging journey, and, nonetheless, a worthwhile, and necessary one.
I don’t know about you, but for me, the last 10 years have often felt like an avalanche of despair. Don’t get me wrong, there has been A LOT of joy, and I am incredibly lucky to be surrounded by immense love and support. However, the darkness has felt overwhelming. The weight of the world is heavy. The weight of life is heavy. The weight of individuality is heavy. The weight of relationships is heavy. The weight of responsibility is heavy. The weight of aging is heavy. Getting out of bed can be a challenge. Placing one foot in front of the other requires thought and determination. On my worst days, I feel apathetic and morose, and I’m riddled with questions. How do you fight daily dread? How do you soothe your parasympathetic system when it is constantly being bombarded by unnerving stimuli?
I don’t know.
There are days I feel like every damn thing about me is a façade. How do I live authentically, loudly, and proudly, in a world that is constantly trying to silence, and get rid of me? I’m unwanted, on many fronts, and that throws me back to being a brown, queer kid, that holds my tongue, and seeks the comfort of shadows. When you grow up being silenced, and needing to hide, shutting your mouth is your means of survival. Being silenced as an adult, whether by someone else’s command or by my own volition, has a different sting. As an “adult” I should have more authority, more say, more control, but I don’t. And though I often want to fight it, being silenced also provides an unnerving, familiar, comfort of sorts. So I submit to it, because it has served and protected me in the past. At some point being silenced and choosing silence starts to blur. I’ve become accustomed to it. On the flip side, there is a power in silence. Silence is healing. Silence is calming. Your perspective is the key, and that is usually what those trying to force you into silence don’t want you to see.
I have learned that I will often not have the answers, and that, try as I might to avoid it, the next challenge is just around the corner. Most days I’m just trying to get by, survive another day, and provide for my family. To some that may seem too passive, in a world that is begging for action. Maybe it is, but sometimes I just need to keep my head down and shuffle on. Just get by another day, and hope for better ones to come. The only thing I know for certain, in my 50+ years, is that despite the dread, oppression, and obstacles, there is always HOPE. Some days it’s a challenge to find it, but it is certainly there. Most days, it is all that keeps me going, and that is enough. I know that hope is enough. So I hold on tight, push forward, and survive another day.
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