461.

I’ve been trying to write this piece for 461 days. Four-hundred and sixty-one days. Sandra Bland died 461 days ago. Ever since her death occurred there’s been a dangerous underlying current as to why so many people do not believe her death was a suicide.

Black women don’t commit suicide. Black women don’t breakdown. Black women are always strong.

This piece isn’t to say whether or not I believe she died at the hands of someone else or herself after being wrongfully arrested. Yet, my purpose is to highlight that there is something so dangerous about the idea that because someone is black, an activist, outspoken, strong…they too aren’t fighting demons. It to address this false narrative that black people and black women in particular are superhuman, unaffected by life’s trials and tribulations. To challenge the idea that black people cannot be depressed.

I remember when one of my friends was facing a difficult time in her life and she announced to her mother that she was depressed and wanted to seek counseling. Her mother’s first response was “so you’ve become like the white man.” Somewhere down the line admitting that you’re suffering and you need help became synonymous with white man behavior. I could go into an entire history lesson that would give context for why this has happened, but while the history of where this came from is important, the impact is what we experience.

I love old houses because they give off this persona of being wise, strong, beautiful, and impenetrable. Sometimes when you look at it head on, you cannot even see all its beauty until you go inside. However, with older houses come more in depth problems shielded from the naked eye. Quickly, I’m reminded of the power of termites, the silent destroyer, eating away at every foundation that was carefully laid. Still, because we don’t see it, we think we can defeat it through cover up. If I make it beautiful enough, if I reinforce the flooring, if I cover up all the imperfections, it will never crumble. So day in and day out, this is what you do, you sweep the floor, paint the walls, bring in flowers, and ignore the creaking. You stop inviting people over because you don’t want to damage it any further. Days go on, months, and sometimes years, everything seemingly perfect. Until one day, it crumbles, because no amount of paint can fix something that is being eaten away at underneath the surface. The only way is fix it is to acknowledge, examine, and exterminate the problem. We can’t solve something we don’t believe is real.

I like the idea of black girl magic. The idea that we defy odds stacked against us. The idea that we continue to rise after being beaten down, used, and abused. The idea that because of and in spite of pressure, we blossom. But, what happens when we no longer feel magical? What happens when we start to say, “I can’t do this anymore?” What will it take for our pain to be acknowledged?