Today, I missed work for “not feeling well.” Not for a fever, but for something that goes through my brain not allowing me to get up from bed and start my day.
Thank you for your willingness to learn what I need when I feel particularly anxious and to respect boundaries.
I don’t like looking at my wedding photos. There, I said it. It’s not that they aren’t beautiful, objectively they are. Rather, it’s that the story they tell is incomplete.
I want us to actually get to a point where mental illness in the Black community isn’t a shock or a surprise to anyone at all. I want us to get to a point where it is simply viewed an overall health issue.
You are impatient with those you love.
In hindsight, balancing those two separate lives during my battle with mental illness was more draining and painful than any of the actual effects from it. That entire time, I thought I deserved the exhaustion, and that no one would understand, but the truth is that I actually needed all the help I could have gotten.
They always think that I’m strong enough to wrestle my demons out of my head and brave enough to bring the normal back to the world. My life is a plagiarized poem, a piece of diary snatched right in front of my eyes. There’s no normal after that.
I was never a cheery child. For many years, I didn’t speak to new people.
My friends and I would hang together, and through comedic love, I would spend most of my time consoling and uplifting them, only to go home alone and cry alone.
Until we all acknowledge the seriousness of not only the devastating feelings and embarrassment of becoming suicidal, but the long lasting scars of the people who witness a suicide of someone close to them, nothing will change.