Therapy, One Time.
Dancing? No. Group projects? Nope. Ice breakers? Fuck that. Depression? You’re not black. For years I denied my depression and social anxiety. I embraced the flaws I didn't want. I was a loner. The fear of ignorance, rejection, and being misunderstood strained me for years into my adulthood. My lack of motivation and occult sadness went unheard. It’s the distress many black men curb to confess.
Years and a college degree later I felt stuck. Mood swings were banal and I was spread thin with unfulfilling work. Adulting is tough and family issues only thickened the anxiety. My mom suffered a mental breakdown last year and admitted into a hospital, where she was diagnosed with depression. A close friend of mine suffered the same fate and through the infamous Google search, I diagnosed myself. I suffered from hereditary depression. Now I faced an ultimatum: stay black and uncured or get help.
I found a therapist not far from where I lived, scheduled an appointment, and finally began to open up. It was tough, but professional help lifted weight off my shoulders and I could accept myself and my emotions. I was free to do what I want. My family relationships improved, mended bonds with women on an emotional level, and I abandoned the need to please. A few weeks later I went to Miami with my fraternity brothers and danced with some cuties til I was sore and sang Migos records with ratchet passion. I was a new me.
My twenty-fifth birthday is in less than a month and I stamp my healing as an oath to self-wealth. I’m still recovering. I’m still young. I’m still Alex. My past is solidified but the present and future are mine. Feel stuck? Want help? Seek it. Kudos to all of you. You don’t deserve this pain. A moment of uncomfort is better than a life of unhappiness.