Young, Black, Progressive…Suicide Survivor

It’s time…

I’ve got to do it. It’s something I’ve battled for a long time. I’ve gained courage and I’ve lost it. I’ve gained my strength and I’ve lost it a million times over. I’ve procrastinated. I’ve been embarrassed. I’ve found and created excuses. I’ve found a million reasons to stall, but today that changes. These young lives are why I must tell my story. The suicide rate among black children has increased by 71 percent.

I tell my story as I believe that God wouldn’t have allowed me to endure and to reach peace without Him desiring for me to reach out and help those around me. My purpose on this earth is to teach you to live.

The same thing that could have killed me is the same thing that makes me stronger. I overcome anxiety and depression each day, and I am a childhood suicide survivor.

We all know that your preteen and adolescent years can be some of the most terrifying and bewildering years of our lives. Struggling to fit in with the cool kids, keeping up with the latest fads, pop culture, and childhood crushes can be a bit much for some and I was different. I always knew it. It was something that I could just feel.

Mentally, I was an outsider as one of the few black kids in an all white school. When I was around black kids I was bullied and picked on because I was a “different type of black.” I was labeled as an “Oreo” and “proper.” In their eyes, I wasn’t black enough.  I didn’t keep up with the latest fashion trends and their interests weren’t mine. It didn’t help that I was taller and chubbier. While the other girls gained the affection of my middle school crushes, it was obvious that they weren’t interested in me. Ultimately, I suffered from low self-esteem. I didn’t think much of myself.

J.Cole’s “Apparently” describes his upbringing as “no perfect home”, I can describe mine the same.

From the outside looking in, we appeared to be a well-established black family. My mother was an elementary school teacher and my father a public transit bus driver. We participated in extracurricular activities and had food on the table and clothes on our backs.

On the inside, it was an angry household; a mentally abusive household. Praise and affirmation were never an option. Instead of hugs and affection, I witnessed demeaning exchanges full of rage.

My father was a cold, shrewd, but highly intelligent man with a chip the size of the world on his shoulders. I later learned that my father grew up in the same environment and I now understand that he could only parent in the manner that he witnessed during his childhood. I grew up in a household where silence was punishment. No communication. No talking it out. Pride.

I was born right in the middle of a war. My parents did not speak while in the household. I can’t recall a sane conversation between the two. They slept in separate bedrooms and nobody talked to each other, ever. There was always a reason to be mad.

While searching for my own sanity, it became clear that many of the circumstances that plagued my household stemmed from preexisting mental and behavioral health communication issues that existed well before I came into the picture and well before my parents were born. The issues that plagued my household were generational cycles.

My parents’ divorce segmented my brothers and myself. My eldest brother could be seen with my mother and my youngest with my father; I stood out in the balance.  I was just a confused, misunderstood, and an unheard little girl with a powerful voice, something to say and no one to listen.

While my parents did the best they could with the knowledge and experience they had, they welcomed children into a home lacking love. I never saw them confide in each other, mentally or physically. They never kissed. They never touched. They never spoke. Their discourse would later become the blueprint for my own relationships.

My first example of “communication” was the silent treatment. If you were upset or mad with someone, you didn’t acknowledge that individual. We walked the hallways in silence- we walked the hallways angry and tense.

We lived in the same household, underneath the same roof, but we didn’t speak.

When words were exchanged, they were full of aggression. Everyone talked over the other and that soon was followed by ill-spirited, cut-throat comments. The intent was to hurt. Instead of explaining actual feelings, my household exchanged the hurt via cold and harsh antics. Playwright August Wilson’s “Fences” reminds me of my childhood home.

I was a child born into a grown-up situation. I inherited chaos and I was too young to know how to explain my feelings. I wasn’t aware that I had feelings; I didn’t know how to express myself.

My young mind wasn’t developed to understand what was going on; I was just there. I didn’t know that the behavior that I witnessed was wrong and unhealthy.

How could I effectively communicate if I’d never seen anyone do it? I was taught to hold it inside, to let it fester until you explode with rage and anger.

As an eight-year-old girl, I didn’t know the weight of the world was on my mother’s shoulders. She had never lived alone or cared for herself before marrying my father at the age of 20. She left her parents’ home and eight siblings only to care for three more of her own. She was a single parent who had suffered her own trauma and was ignorant of the trauma that had impacted her children. She had just left an abusive relationship and her father had passed. She herself could be cold, harsh, and distant and that was a result of her own depression.

After what seemed to be the millionth argument between myself, my youngest brother, and my mother, I remember questioning my existence, “If you aren’t going to listen to me, then why am I here?”

I remember feeling that I wasn’t being heard. I remember feeling misunderstood. I FELT INVISIBLE.  I felt as if I didn’t fit in anywhere, not at home, not at school, not anywhere. “Nobody listens to me, nobody sees me,” I thought. “Why am I here?”  Only I couldn’t articulate my feelings.

I didn’t have space or the mental fortitude to sort through my emotions. With no perceived value for my life, I attempted suicide by overdose.

However ironic as it sounds, I can bet that the concept of finality isn’t one that is completely understood during the act of suicide. Suicide is that final straw. I can’t speak for everyone, but, I can bet that a majority acts of suicide are in an attempt to make problems disappear for a moment in time- not forever. In that moment, you aren’t thinking of the future, and if you’ve never been made aware that there is a future, that there is more than your current situation, that final straw is now. In a moment of total brokenness,  someone who is suffering from depression, mental illness,  anxiety, and chemical imbalances- ending it all is the only solution.

I now understand that my suicide attempt was a result of not knowing how to effectively communicate.

There are people around the world that fight to live mentally every day.  It’s a daily fight and a struggle to not give up. It’s also difficult to refrain from self-sabotage. Giving up and letting go is literally life or death, the only option for some when they haven’t been equipped to handle life’s curve balls.  They could be your best friend, a spouse, a coworker, or a child in your life.

Mental health issues when given the proper attention can be nurtured and treated once acknowledged. Lives can be continued and doors can be opened. I’m a strong proponent of faith, but what happens when someone is battling depression, anxiety, or is suffering from a preexisting mental health issue? And they confide that they need help and your response is “pray?” What if that individual isn’t religious? What if they haven’t met God yet, as it was in my case? What cures them now? Prayer without work is dead. I’ve learned firsthand and discovered that my freedom and peace is found through prayer and therapy.

I am a living example that mental health issues exist in the African-American community and how would you have known without my disclosure. To the observant eye, I’m living a dream.

My inexhaustible spirit is one that did not appear overnight. It was work- REALLY HARD WORK! It was joy, pain, mistakes, and learned lessons. After my attempt, my mother and I visited a therapist for one session. Unfamiliar with this territory and probably a bit embarrassed, we didn’t explore what happened, we swept it under the rug, or so we thought.

The underlying issues surfaced as an adult and affected every relationship that I encountered. Both platonic and romantic. I will go into further detail in future posts.

My childhood trauma created anxiety and the constant need for validation. Impulsive behaviors manifested and the fallout from toxic relationships turned into depression, time and time again. I was on a search for love and I didn’t even know it.

The idea that African- Americans aren’t affected by mental health is one of the sole factors that keeps us from moving forward. Our race has been traumatized since we found ourselves in bondage sailing down the Middle Passage.

I’m a firm believer that mental health is the root disconnection between African-American men and women. If neither side knows their true identity, their role, and their purpose, it becomes impossible to move forward. You have to know who you are, and you have to know your voice in order to effectively communicate.

Mental health is how you SEE yourself. It’s how you genuinely FEEL about yourself. Your mental health is your mental strength. The way that you feel about yourself determines a variety of things; your behavior, interactions, relationships, etc.

Those who suffer from mental and behavioral health issues can experience heightened emotions described as extreme empathy, confusion, and passion for whatever the cause. If we’re happy, we’re really happy. If we’re sad, we’re extremely sad.

I see so many of these cases at the root of viscous cycles facing the African-American community, and many times, it’s something that we can treat. Anger Management, codependency, abandonment issues, fear, and low self-esteem are all interwoven into the elephant in the room—mental and behavioral health.  We can’t sit here and say we don’t have it— our results prove it.

Not acknowledging the truth, perpetuates the cycle within your family.

As children, we are born with a blank slate, with some degree of inherited behaviors. The majority of conflict that we face is from behaviors that we have learned throughout our childhood. A child mimics what they see. They learn what they see. If a child only observes one variation, one method of behavior and that method isn’t effective and doesn’t yield positive results, the likelihood that they will repeat the same unproductive behavior is significantly increased.

I made a promise to myself to not repeat the cycle and to give my future spouse, children, and family a chance. The shortcomings that I was born into don’t have to affect me as an adult.

I now walk taller than I ever have.

It’s our choice to get help. Faith without work is dead. Our work is first acknowledging and accepting the fact that some of us need help. It doesn’t make us weak, it makes us human. I’ve never been stronger in my life.

Ironically, now that I’ve truly embraced me, flaws and all, I no longer care about the opinions of others whose ignorance limits their perception on all of the benefits of seeking mental and behavioral health assistance. Now that I understand the root of my previous behavior, it is easier to make corrections and move forward.

We always say that Black Lives Matter and I’ve learned that your confidence begins within you- YOU HAVE TO SEE IT AND BELIEVE IT FOR YOURSELF. An action is more imperative than a hashtag. I advocate implementing mental and behavioral health assistance in our communities given the unprecedented issues facing our undeserved and marginalized communities.

My experience with counseling and therapy allowed me the space to remove my past from my future. Before we as a race can move forward, it’s imperative that we understand that our past doesn’t dictate our future. However, we must first know where we’ve come from. 

If you find yourself continuously running into the same walls and roadblocks, receiving the same undesired outcomes, the common denominator may not be the people or the situations involved, but rather you and the situations that you place yourself in. Your approach may simply need to be tweaked.  Your strategy to yield the expected results simply may not be conducive to do so. Don’t postpone tomorrow what could be done today. Seek help and open the door to the rest of your life!

My purpose on this earth is to help you to live. God had me go through what I went through so I could encourage you to live—to thrive. Your pain is your power.

If you, a friend or a loved one is contemplating suicide, I urge you to call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 800-273-8255 or visit save.org.

As Nina Simone croons in Aint Got No, I Got Life:

I got my arms, got my hands
Got my fingers, got my legs
Got my feet, got my toes
Got my liver, got my blood

I’ve got life, I’ve got my freedom
I’ve got the life

I’ve got the life
And I’m gonna keep it
I’ve got the life
And nobody’s gonna take it away
I’ve got the life

Truly that’s all you have in this world. Choose to cherish it, no matter how difficult life becomes. Instead of focusing on what you lack, focus on what you have and what is to come.