mental illness: the most ignored pandemic within our communities

When I was around 5 years old, I used to cover myself in Band-Aids. Mind you, I wouldn’t have any cuts, bruises, lacerations, or any need to be wearing bandages but I was nearly mummified in them when my mom would come home from work. While I do believe part of my reasoning to stunt in them was purely me trying to be as “fashion forward” as possible… My mother would ask why I’d wear them, to which I would reply, “so nobody could hurt me.” She would constantly ask this question like a broken record because she found my response hilarious. Looking back, at 21 years old and diagnosed with anxiety, it is very clear I displayed symptoms (which were ignored) early on. 

I grew up with a stereotypical black, matriarchal mother-a portrait oftentimes painted in Tyler Perry movies. Meaning: I sure as hell better have done what she told me to without questions asked and discussing my “feelings” were no option. As far as she was concerned, I didn’t pay any bills so I wasn’t allowed to have “feelings” unless they were about my GPA or keeping my room tidy. She’d always say, “God loves a child that has his own…So, when you have a job and your own place, then perhaps I will be willing to listen.” My mother remained the captain of a ship she was completely unaware was sinking.

My parents always wanted to provide a life for me that was better than theirs. Consequently, they were very harsh on me about my grades. Granted, this helped form my current work ethic and perfectionism but it also resulted in all my worth being valued in my accolades. They didn’t necessarily take the time to get to know me as their daughter but rather viewed me as an investment plan. I wasn’t allowed to openly express emotions that were “unfriendly” to the household such as anger or sadness. I felt this intense pressure to constantly perform at a high caliber in everything because that was how I was able to receive their positive reinforcement. I would be self critical to the point it was crippling when I couldn’t receive their love or if I was at the brunt of their excessive mocking. However, I didn’t know HOW to express these emotions because I knew I wasn’t allowed to. Combine untreated anxiety + any talk of feelings being silenced + a high pressure environment — you will get a ticking time bomb. 

I started trying to find ways to control my emotions and fill the emptiness by self injuring at 13 and using drugs at 15. Upon entering high school, while I still maintained a very high GPA and the praise of many teachers, I was notorious for being rebellious. It subconsciously stemmed from a similar mentality to that of a young child; my parents would only pay attention to me for my grades, not my hobbies, likes and/or dislikes- breaking the rules was the only way to get them to focus on me as their daughter rather than the robot student. 

Eventually, my behavior spiraled out of control along with my addiction. I was met face to face with my demons and decided to finally tell my mother that I was struggling with cutting. But, when I unrolled my sleeves, she accused me of doing it for attention. The entire 3 years I had been self injuring prior was something I kept very private because I took pride in the control. It took a few weeks before she realized that I had much older scars on my wrists. However, it was still something we never talked about again. I asked for therapy, for 12 step, for some way to understand myself and my feelings better, but she called it all “white people shit” and directed me to my father (the white one) instead. 

I took the initiative to attend 12 step meetings for the remainder of high school; but, I found that something biologically engrained like anxiety would keep knocking until the door collapsed, especially when one doesn’t have professional help. I remained in a deadly tango of being heavily addicted to self injury and drugs as a means of coping. Combine an addict’s personality, on top of anxiety, on top of coping with a sexual assault (that happened when I was 19) with hypersexuality, and a family that refuses to talk about any of it… you have fertile ground for a personality disorder to fester as well as a train to start derailing. My family would become so frustrated because they could see how sick I was but couldn’t understand why I couldn’t instantly become “ok.” They thought I “enjoyed” being this sick. To a certain extent, I did let myself sink and wallow in self pity, as many addicts do…but I felt so stuck, that I became convinced I was always going to be this way. I pushed and pulled with everyone in my life because I expected them to turn out like my parents. I expected them to expect something of me and only love me for that reason; so, I would either chase them away or make myself into a false image of perfection so they would OF COURSE want to stay. I wedged many people between the drywall of my disorder and myself in hopes I would never have to confront it head on. I became a funhouse of manipulation and lying, constantly pulling tricks out of my hat in an attempt to disappear from myself.

I spent many years confused as to why my very own flesh and blood, would either turn the other cheek or explode out of anger- neither were productive nor conducive to me getting help. Years later, after a suicide attempt and completing treatment, my family and I were able to have an actual conversation. They expressed that in being black in America, we already have enough strikes against us for simply existing- add mental illness, well that would make life impossible. They chose to will me normal and firmly believe they could do so because they felt that was the only option. While it took 8 years for this conversation to transpire, I am grateful for it has allowed me to gain perspective and understand what is needed in order to break stigma and encourage dialogue when it comes to mental health. So, with that being said, here is a list of things to keep in mind whilst discussing and/or thinking about mental illness: 

1. Ruby Wax has a brilliant TED talk in which she presents the question: “How come every other organ in your body can get sick and you get sympathy, except the brain?” For some reason, it is very difficult for those with mental illness to receive the sympathy needed because they cannot wear their sickness like that of a cancer patient. Everything that is dysfunctional is happening inside their brain rather than outwardly such as the suffering evident in a broken wrist, hair falling out, vomiting, etc. It is easy for people to believe someone who is mentally ill is making a conscious decision to behave the way they do, which leads to my second point. 

2. Someone suffering from the symptoms of mental illness does not make them a “bad” person. Their negative behaviors are indeed “bad” and should be reprimanded accordingly, but it shouldn’t be indicative of their personhood. There is a very large difference between saying, “you are a bad human being” and “your actions are bad” — which is often times where extreme shame for the mentally ill can derive from. 

3. Ignoring the “problem” doesn’t make it magically disappear. As much as we want to be in denial when it comes to ourselves or a loved one having mental illness, pretending it simply doesn’t exist won’t stop biology from continuing to work its will. We need to understand as a society that it is okay to not be okay. We live in a culture that places so much value on celebrities, false happiness, and materialism, we feel as if we have to constantly meet that par. It is okay to feel a little too human somedays. It is okay to take responsibility for your inability to do so. It is okay to say you need help, because we all deserve happiness at the end of the day.