It’s Time to Discuss Black Mental Health
My Journey to Healing
Growing up, I never focused on discussing mental health. I remember getting overwhelmed and stressed with tests and essays, trying to make sure my grades were acceptable for college and at a scholarly level. There was the nail biting that started many years prior but had gotten worse, struggling to fall asleep, and often having a hard time focusing in class.
There were times when I’d fall into this period of doubt, where I’d get in my head about how I didn’t know what career path I’d end up going down, and how my future will turn out. Overthinking every small detail about it, and even conversations I’d have in real-time. This period would turn into deep loneliness, where I would isolate myself away from others so I wouldn’t be a burden. Forgetting to eat, bathe, stay in bed, and watch hours of television, movies, and YouTube videos. Listening to the saddest music and trying to cry myself to sleep. I realized that every bit of what I was going through could be linked to anxiety, and most definitely, depression.
It wasn’t until I got older, that I decided to take the leap and discuss my mental health with a doctor, who originally prescribed me medication that didn’t help. However, I was a teenager and didn’t realize at the time that those types of things take time. I stopped taking the medication and decided to simply deal with my problems independently. That also did not work at all.
For years I battled with keeping my emotions under control and trying to find ways to subtly get help without alarming those close to me. I’ve always thought being depressed was considered a weakness, like what is there to be depressed about? I have a home, bed, food, clothes, a social life, and a loving family. What is there to be sad about? I would often vent to those closest to me, like my friends and family, but found that that may not be what’s best. This is still something I struggle with now, which is this fear of being a burden to those who hear me constantly cry and complain.
I thought maybe I could pray away the bad thoughts and that would get them to stop, but I couldn’t get my mind to concentrate and stop thinking for just one second. I never thought to seek professional help and found excuses as to why I wouldn’t do that. I was too busy with work and school, too busy trying to navigate my social life, all while thinking in the back of my head “I should be able to get my emotions and thoughts under control by myself.” Then one significant event in my life, and everyone’s lives happened, the COVID-19 pandemic.
While being at home, isolated from the outside world was great at first (especially for an introvert like me), it took a drastic toll on my mental health. I found myself constantly being in my head, overthinking every single interaction I had with those around me, and with everyone I stayed in contact with. I eventually decided to take the big leap: go to therapy.
Therapy wasn’t the easiest decision, and it took a while to get adjusted to. Opening up to a stranger was beyond difficult, but that ended up being the best part about it. My therapist was blunt and didn’t sugarcoat anything, often challenging me and trying to understand what I’m feeling while also trying to help guide me. They didn’t tell me how I should feel about certain situations and never told me what I should say or do.
But one thing that stood out to me the most was that my therapist would constantly remind me that I’m not alone in this. When I would stress about how down I am, and how I don’t have the energy to do the hobbies that I would typically enjoy doing, they would reassure me that I am not the only one on Earth dealing with that similar issue. I began to think about it on a deeper level.
Whenever I would discuss mental health with my African-American peers, I noticed that it wasn’t something that they ever thought to seek help for or talk to anyone about it. After looking into it, even more, I realized that there’s a certain stigma around mental health that the black community hardly discusses. I started reading “The Unapologetic Guide to Black Mental Health” by Dr. Rheeda Walker, which was gifted to me this past Christmas.
Dr. Walker pointed out many aspects of the stigma around black mental health that aren’t discussed often. There’s the historical discussion, where because our ancestors endured so much pain and trauma, we end up having the mindset that admitting to being mentally unwell makes us look “weak” and possibly not appear “black enough.” We’re supposed to appear strong because of everything they went through. However, it’s time to get past that mindset and take on the idea that mental health affects our blackness.
It’s also time to eradicate this idea that if one black individual has a mental illness, their whole family must have, if not similar issues, but must all be mentally ill. Owning up to having these illnesses and being willing to discuss them doesn’t make us less black or question them at all. Being open to talking to someone instead of bottling up emotions, especially when you’re feeling very unwell and unfit to go on with your life, is completely fine, and shows that you truly want to take care of yourself. Recognizing that it’s okay to have mental health disorders goes a long way, we should have these conversations to show that those who are struggling with them are not alone and that there are options available.
