TW: This essay makes reference to anxiety, depression and suicidal ideation that may be discomforting. If you or anyone you know is struggling with similar experiences, we are dedicated to highlighting resources that could help.
Online Support Groups
SAMHSA's National Helpline – 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Therapy for Black Girls: Online space founded by Dr. Joy Bradford dedicated to encouraging the mental wellness of Black women and girls, including a free podcast aimed at making mental health topics accessible
Sister Afya Online Sister Support Group: Support group for learning from other women and learning life skills to improve mental well-being ($10/session fee but can contact booking@sistaafya.com if fee is prohibitive)
Ethel’s Club: Paid membership-based virtual community with classes, live events and wellness resources for promoting wellbeing in people of color
Why Am I So Bad At This?
When writing, I avoid turning to the personal as much as possible. Analysis, commentary on the world around me---that’s my sweet spot. It’s where I can feign credentials out of arrogance and my bizarre compulsion to form halfway-coherent opinions on things I am not directly involved in.
As a policy, I’ve decided that the personal belongs in diaries, to maybe be revisited in future therapy sessions, if ever. There’s only so much misplaced confidence you can muster up when you turn inward, and that type of transparency is not something you supply to the outside world. Who wants to hear about that?
Ever heard the saying, “Don’t tell people your problems. Half of folks don’t care and the other half are glad you have them.”? I did, constantly. And for most of my life, I’ve believed it to be true.
There are exceptions, of course. If you are among the people gifted with the ability to turn pain into poeticism, there might be a platform for you to share your inconvenient truths. By all means, turn your despair into lyrical prose, but by God it better sound pretty. Otherwise what are we doing here?
I love poets but I am not one. I’ve given it a try and it’s not my calling, and that’s okay. So, where does that leave me? Another highly emotional person who can kind of write but doesn’t really know how to do so when it comes to the topics that have most defined my adolescence and young adulthood.
For about two years now, though, I’ve tried testing my abilities to this end. When I wake up in the morning and stare at myself longingly for eight to twelve minutes each morning I’ll ask, “Self, how will we articulate this feeling of deepening emptiness with nuance and artistry today?” And I’ll reply, “Well I don’t know, Self. That sounds hard. Why don’t we do something better like going back to sleep?” and I’ll reply, “Self, you’re so smart. Yes, let’s do that instead.”
Plot Structure / How We Got Here
Shortly after graduating college, I experienced what I later realized was a severe depressive episode. It was not my first time feeling these types of feelings, but I say “severe” because it was the first time that they resulted in physical evidence and visible events that other people were privy to.
For the first six months after moving out of Atlanta, Georgia---my college city base and site of the previous four years of growth---to go back to my hometown in the Washington D.C. area, I experienced a slow burnout to a nothingness that, by grace, I can’t quite remember the daily of. I remember learning as a freshman in college that one of the markers of depression is memory loss, to which I’d joke, “no wonder my memories of high school are so foggy 🤪.” Turns out, though, there is sound scientific evidence that extreme sadness can affect memory retention.
If I had to choose, I think the key plot points of this depressive period would include:
Reaching such a point of inaction that I would not eat without spoon-fed assistance from my parents
Texting several close friends and one former professor mentor that I believed myself to be in danger
Refusing hospital care after getting hit by a subcompact SUV while riding a scooter during my lunch break from a job I hated.
These points in my life are disgusting and embarrassing. They represent reaching such a level of self-loathing that I was incapable of the most basic functions of socialization and human survival. If anything, I was fighting the instincts to keep up the appearances of a normal person because my mind was separating the functional will to live with my desire to. It wasn’t that I was actively trying to end my life, but little by little, I was sinking deeper into the thinking that living was not necessary. If I were being honest, I was dissatisfied with my life and decided that therefore, I did not deserve to live.
It’s hard to describe that type of feeling, I think, because it was defined by compounding levels of nothingness. I felt like nothing, I wanted to do nothing, I did nothing, I was nothing, etc. During this period, I would drive myself to work along the Potomac River---an experience I used to enjoy---and fantasize about driving over the guardrail. How could I do it without harming other commuters? Would it be a quick end? This is my mom’s car so maybe we should explore more efficient options.
Somewhere along the way, recurring insecurities and uneasiness about my purpose had become an all-encompassing state of being. Any personality I had, any excitement about what life had to offer was eaten up by this emptiness. It became my only character trait.
Now What?
I’ll spare you the details but eventually, with licensed assistance and changes in my surroundings, I got out of that headspace. Or rather, I got to a place where I can live with those feelings, minimizing their power to impact my ability to function in a society. When I got to the “other side,” though, I started to attempt to make sense of what the hell had just happened. Had it really happened at all? Did I really say those things? Did I really do those things?
Some items are still blurry and that’s probably for the best, but in the two years since that time in my life, I occasionally experience a dread that it could happen again. I hope it doesn’t but, like any disease, if you don’t take proper care, you will likely experience a flare up. And honestly, even if you do take all the medicine and go to all the sessions, and do all the dopamine-enducing physical activities, it could probably still happen again. Part of what I think might help me preparing for that inevitable moment is learning to articulate what is happening to me. So here we are, my most self-involved essay to date. I pray it brings me some solace.