The Burden of Loss

For Hector Colón, losing his father as a child left a massive void. OVER 40 years later, he and his family struggle with the physical—and mental—toll of loss.

By Zachary Carter

 All interviews for this story were conducted through an interpreter.

SAN LUCAS TOLIMÁN, Guatemala — Their duality is striking.

Don Hector Rolando Colón Perez sits in, or more so sinks into, a small chair under a shaded awning. His hands rest gently in his lap. His eyes hardly move from his dirt-encrusted work boots. Hector, 48, speaks in soft, truncated sentences, but his voice carries an unimaginable weight.

He wears a faded white Adidas t-shirt. His dark denim jeans cement a particularly unflavorful outfit. 

To his left sits his wife of over 20 years, Doña Flavia Morales Lopez. Her native garment, the huipil, shines bright of purples, yellows, oranges and pinks. In the reflection of the sun, a depiction of Our Lady of Guadalupe sparkles as the garment’s centerpiece.

Flavia, 47, is animated, perched upright. She projects a strong sense of conviction, speaking more with her hands than her words. 

Just inches separate them. The couple’s lives have been intertwined by two decades of marriage, but at this very moment, they could not be any more different. 

Between sentences, Flavia blots her eyes with a handful of crumpled tissues. 

This is a story they have been waiting — no — needing to tell. 

A Gaping Hole

Seven years prior, Hector sat in the same position. Again, his head hung. He no longer rests on a small chair, but rather, a weathered curb on the side of the road. Unkempt, unwashed hair replaces his standard combover. A full beard resides on what is usually a clean-shaven face. 

And internally? Where his heart should be, there is a gaping hole. 

Depression had long consumed Hector. He could not work, nor could he provide for his family, which includes his then 9-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son. On days like these, he may wander aimlessly, returning home at night with little to show. 

He has since undergone mental health counseling, but the journey has been anything but easy. It is an arduous process many others do not see to the end. In Guatemala, resources to treat mental health are often nothing more than a foreign concept. 

“It’s oddly difficult to live with someone who is going through something like that because I could not understand him,” Flavia said. “What exactly are you feeling?” She would ask.

Her husband’s response was rarely clear, deeply clouded in a grim fog. 

“He would say, ‘My heart is not working. I feel like I am dying,’” she said. 

The two visited doctors in their local community within Sololá, Guatemala, but medical professionals found nothing to note. They consulted heart specialists in Mazatenango, nearly two hours away, but tests all came back negative.

A friend recommended Hector see a psychologist, suggesting the problem might be mental, rather than physical. It was only after he took this advice that his depression diagnosis became official, but it was clear he had long been battling the disease before. 

A Longing Feeling

When Hector was 4 years old, the Guatemalan army stormed his hometown of San Martín, taking his father by force at what was the beginning of a 36-year-long civil war. He would return, but only to depart again on his own. It was the last time Hector would ever see his father. 

Rebel guerrilla efforts had sprung up around the country to fight back against a corruptive Guatemalan government, and Hector’s father, Hector Santos Culan Sulugui, left to join the fight. By the time the two sides agreed upon the Accord for a Firm and Lasting Peace agreement, signifying the end of the conflict nearly four decades after it began, over 200,000 Guatemalans lost their lives. Hector has long wondered if his father was one of them. 

His entire life Hector grew up anticipating his father’s return someday — a day that ultimately never came. He did not understand. Where did he go? Will he ever come back? Is he still alive?

As the years passed, the cumbersome hole in Hector’s heart continued to grow, preoccupying his mind in ways only a child longing for his parent could understand. 

Perpetual Dread

Even in his adult years, the emotional toll his father’s absence had on Hector made life very difficult for him and his family. During stretches of his intense depressive episodes, Flavia stepped up to fill the role of both mother and father. 

Her work began at 4 a.m., when she would wake to begin weaving. Likely having skipped dinner the night before so that her children had enough to eat, her grueling days were outlined by hunger but shadowed in fear. 

And yet, she had no other choice.

“What do I do when my children are hungry? If I am taking care of him (Hector), what do we eat?” she asked. “I would rather leave him at home and have God take care of him — I am going to go out and fight, struggle, for my children.”

The Art of Weaving

The money Flavia made weaving was not nearly enough to support a family of four — especially if her income was not supplemented by her husband. Weaving, as a traditional practice, is a shell of what it used to be for many indigenous people. Once a beautiful, prosperous craft of artistry personifying indigenous Maya culture, it has since been stolen by large corporations, who claim the work to be their own and threaten lawsuits against conventional weavers to discourage the truth from coming to light. 

Efforts to mass-merchandise huipiles and other weaving textiles have compressed the time it takes to produce one organic product to make a larger profit. 

For Flavia and other traditional weavers, they can complete one huipil in about eight days. More complicated garments can take much longer, sometimes months. With the help of heavy machinery, industrial appropriators can do it in just a couple seconds. In one day, they could make as many as 3,000 huipiles. 

Weaving requires focus, creativity and emotional vulnerability. A textile maker must be in touch with their feelings to culminate a product of the highest quality. This occupation does not compensate like it used to, thanks mostly to international industrial efforts, but Flavia knows she must make it work regardless. 

And so, Flavia weaves. She weaves to support herself, her children and her husband, but her efforts are never adequately compensated.

At times, she owned as few as two huipiles for herself. Everything else she sold at the local market to afford Hector’s medication or food and clothing for their children. 

Her sacrifice and unrelenting dedication to her family reached levels very few can admit they’re capable of. Her presence is the backbone that has held her family together through it all.  

El Machismo

Hector’s internal struggles were already enough to incapacitate his daily life. Externally, he faced backlash and ridicule. His community — his friends — weaponized their confusion for his condition against him. He was discriminated against, looked down upon and tormented largely because he was misunderstood. 

Time and time again, Flavia put on a brave face. She supported her husband unconditionally. She was, and still is, a perpetual voice of reason in Hector’s ear. 

Keep going, Hector!

“They made fun of him. They mocked him,” she said. “They would say, ‘Well why don’t you work? You should be working.”’

Let’s go! Let’s go!

Hector felt useless. In this community, an unbridled stigma of masculinity does not just expect men to work, it demands it. Money is forever tight, and if you do not work, you serve virtually no purpose. 

You can do this! You can do this!

“There came a point when he thought, ‘Maybe I should just die,’” Flavia said. 

If I can do this, so can you!

The fragility of Hector’s emotional state pushed the couple to the brink. Flavia thought about emigrating, with the potential for economic opportunity elsewhere serving as the main motivating factor. She had to provide for her family, even if it meant leaving them altogether. 

Flavia recalls this exchange with her husband, and his response was equally as transparent as it was bone-chilling. 

“He said to me, ‘If you leave, I can tell you right now that I am going to die.’” 

Flavia’s departure, in Hector’s eyes, would spark a chain reaction through the family. If she left, he feared he could not survive on his own. Without support, Flavia said their children would die, too. 

Leaving was not an option, but Hector was lost, his mind a murky sea of negativity. Yet, Flavia shined brighter. 

And it may just be the reason he is still alive today. 

The Search For A Cure

“Of course it was not my intention not to work, I wanted to work. I like to work,” Hector said. “God has given me a lot of wisdom. I can work with music. I can work in cooking. I can be a farmer. I was actually formed as an accountant, but there are not many opportunities available in that kind of work.” 

In Sololá, Hector sought out mental health counseling. The hole in his heart had burdened him for over 40 years, but he knew he was capable of more. He knew he could be the man his family needed him to be. He was riddled with guilt, but determined to change. 

Treatment options were sparse, but Hector stayed the course. He would arrive to find the line out the door. He was not alone on his quest, and while the concept was inspiring — men and women hoping to better themselves through the pursuit of mental empowerment — the reality was equally as grisly. 

Before the pandemic, Hector had been making steady progress with his treatment, to a point where he felt stable, but the worldwide shutdown left him without tangible resources to combat his illness. 

His search for help renewed. The treatment he had been receiving had been sponsored by a donation from the United States, but when the virus came, the money dried up. 

“The doctor that was helping me retired from the place (I went to),” Hector said. “They told me, ‘There will be no more treatment for you.’” 

The ensuing result was bleak. Hector relapsed, once again a victim of his own mind, but remembering his treatment, and more importantly his faith, he was able to subdue his internal troubles and march onward.

After the pandemic, when doors reopened, the need for mental health professionals only became more dire. The country stood on the verge of a mental health crisis. 

And there were simply not enough psychologists to go around. 

ISSUES UPON ISSUES

Lillian De Leon is one of those psychologists, focusing mainly in treating patients dealing with chronic substance abuse. While she has not treated Hector, she has helped hundreds of other Guatemalans during her 10 years in the profession. 

But to some, she has already outlived her purpose in life, despite being only 32 years old. It is an inclination supported by a past hysterectomy, which renders her unable to have children. An ignorant notion, yes, but one she refuses to let dim her passion for helping others. She understands her work — her purpose — is much more important. 

Her dyslexia, in addition to diabetes, hypertension and arthritis, makes her daily life very difficult. She works long days in Guatemala City at a crowded hospital where she rarely has enough room to see patients.

De Leon’s father, she says, is responsible for her altruistic ways. Growing up, he served as the town’s doctor, his career an unwitting inspiration to her. 

“I wanted to be a doctor, but I didn’t have the stomach for it.” De Leon jokes. “I looked for a career with the aspect of medicine, but I didn’t have to touch anybody.”

A comedic account, but the reasons behind her choice of profession run deeper. 

“In my family, my uncles and relatives were alcoholics,” she continued. “I wanted to help (them).”

And still, that was not all behind De Leon’s decision. 

“I personally went through a sexual abuse when I was a kid, and I noticed that in my family, that was taboo (to talk about),” she said. “That’s where I got this idea that, ‘People need help, they want help.’’’ 

Her story amplifies an unheard voice. Instances of rape and gender violence, mostly toward women, are among the highest causes of depression, anxiety and other mental health issues in Guatemala. 

This only scratches the surface for Guatemala’s population of nearly 17.5 million people. When a relative dies, many are unsure how to process grief. If a spouse migrates to another country in search of better opportunity, it can be too difficult for the other to take on the responsibility as sole-provider for the family. The intention is pure, but the results can be catastrophic. 

Abandonment ensues. Children are left with no parents to care for them. Without money to buy basic necessities, they become malnourished. In Guatemala, rates of teen pregnancy are among some of the highest in the world. 

Poor Perception

And yet, much of De Leon’s work begins by accident. Patients will seek out treatment for physical symptoms of mental illness — panic attacks, elevated heart rates, dizziness — with physicians rather than psychologists, before hospital staff eventually refer them to her. 

“The doctors (in Guatemala) do not have even basic training to recognize mental health problems,” De Leon said. “Most of the time, the doctors will say, ‘Just take this pill because you’re anxious.’”

Psychologists like De Leon must complete extensive schooling to practice in this field. Step one is to graduate high school, something just 35% of Guatemalans within 3-5 years of graduation age do, according to the World Inequality Database on Education in 2015. 

After four years of secondary education, step two is to complete another five years of training to start seeing patients, De Leon says. The first three years focus on theory, learning the fundamentals of psychology, with the final two years prioritizing hands-on practice in the field.

Physicians do not receive any of the training professional psychologists do, hence why they rely heavily on prescription medication to solve problems their patients struggle with. Life-altering issues related to mental health cannot be solved with temporary solutions, but local medical professionals have grown dependent on anti-anxiety medication so that patients seeking help do not leave empty handed. 

In fact, patients prefer prescriptions, rather than drawn-out behavioral treatment from a psychologist. 

“In Guatemala, we as psychologists are badly perceived because the whole process of getting better and (receiving) treatment is really long,” De Leon said. “Most people want an immediate treatment.”

If that wasn’t difficult enough for De Leon to overcome, even a referral to her or other psychologists could incite anger or a feeling of unease in a patient. 

‘“But I am not crazy,”’ De Leon said, speaking on the behalf of many past patients. ‘“(Depression) is just part of life.”’

This is where psychology has become widely misunderstood in Guatemala. 

Many of those in need of help do not want it. They would rather suffer in silence than seek help for the issues that burden them. 

“We usually see more children seeking therapy than older people,” De Leon said. 

To say that psychological treatment for mental health has been stigmatized is an understatement. To many Guatemalans — specifically older generations — it is rarely even considered, shut down on first mention out of a fear of appearing weak. 

To combat these emotions, elderly populations often turn to religious leaders in their communities, relying on the help of spiritual guides and shamans to support them through their ongoing issues, De Leon says. At times, if a number of people dealing with the same problem come together, De Leon says they might form a support group, rallying around each other to combat a shared mental obstacle. 

Whatever the method may be, it is never therapy. And the root of this feeling? Disgust. 

Disgust for potentially speaking on their emotions. Disgust for admitting that they might need help. Disgust for the mockery they could face if their peers caught wind of their actions — the same mockery Hector faced seven years ago. 

A Generational Effort

Children, De Leon says, are the future of psychology in this nation. 

Above all else that she hopes to see one day — her own space to conduct sessions with patients, or hospitals dedicated to mental health treatment or increased mental health training for medical professionals — she hopes to see this stigma broken. 

Luckily for her, she has already begun to see progress.

It is a small revolution, but one that grows steadily, day by day, gaining strength amongst the younger generations. It is slowly becoming more acceptable now for young Guatemalans to go to therapy for the internal issues that affect them. When they grow up and have children of their own, De Leon predicts mental health treatment will become more normalized among these communities. 

“Change has only just begun,” she said. “I have been practicing for 10 years. In these 10 years, I have been able to see that change that, now, more adults are coming in to seek help.”

De Leon hopes that soon, maybe not with the next generation, but with the generations that follow, therapy and other forms of psychological mental health treatments will be accepted as conventional methods of care. 

Questions Left Unanswered

De Leon hopes — no — prays that her work will become accepted in the Guatemalan social sphere. Treatment for mental health can save lives if and when citizens can open their hearts to it. It is the same kind of treatment that has patched up Hector’s heart time and time again. 

For over 40 years, he has remained. Remained in the same town he grew up in, in the same house, fighting for the same thing he has fought for since he was a 4-year-old boy. 

An answer.

He could have easily sold the house, moved away from the painful memories and reminders to start anew with his family. And yet he hasn’t. Why?

“Because it contains the memory of my father,” he put simply. 

For over 40 years, Hector has endured. Endured the taunts and the teasing and the sneers from those in his San Martín community, who ostracized him because they could not understand him. 

But he continued to push forward. Why?

“My children shouldn’t be suffering because of me. They need care, education and food. If I am not working, we don’t have enough income,” he said. 

For over 40 years, Hector has searched. Searched for this answer — anything substantive — that could fill the hole in his heart. His struggles persist and he admits there are still times when he feels low. Without treatment, he may have no direction. 

But each time he struggles, he fights back. Why?

“Because I do everything I can to lift myself back up.”