Mental health is commonly swept under the rug. Particularly in the black community, there is a stigma around seeing a therapist. Naturally when you consider the number of times blacks were subjected to experimentation by the US government, it should be fairly obvious why we don’t want to risk something as important and fragile as our minds. Some things God only knows if you will recover from. I consider myself a stable, productive and consistent individual. I generally greet life with a smile even though I have thoroughly and excessively analyzed all the possible pros, cons, and insignificant factors of everything. I believe that life is full of its ups and downs and occasionally some of the downs feel like an elephant or the universe is holding you down.
In 2012 , in the midst of getting divorced I felt overwhelmed by fear, sadness and good old fashioned desperation. I was the biggest failure and there was nothing that could fix that. I had done what may have been irreparable harm to my children by being in an abusive relationship. I had also harmed myself and had no idea how to fix it or what needed to happen to prevent the same type of mistakes in my future. My kids seemed angry with me and disappointed in whoever it was that I was becoming. My self esteem, confidence, and sense of direction was at an all time low.
I found myself sincerely contemplating suicide in my bathroom. I felt trapped, and just doomed. The whole house may as well have been on fire while I cried crippled in the bathroom with no way out. My fear told me things would never change. I was not going to get divorced, I was not going to be free of this relationship, my children were ruined for life and now stuck in the cycle. Not to mention it was all my fault. The guilt was overwhelming. I honestly don’t know if I was more afraid or ashamed.
When you are a victim of domestic abuse the world judges you. Some are understanding, some garner pity for you, but they judge you nonetheless. Most people wonder how you could be so weak or so out right stupid. You get to hear how they would never let someone treat them like that. Or how they would have dealt with that person and so on and so forth. Perhaps never realizing that all the while they are adding the mountain of shame you are already carrying.
Now flash back to the bathroom. I was depressed. I had started seeing a therapist, who I’m sure had my best interest at heart, but had no clue how to deal with my issues. I know it sounds weird a therapist in theory you think would be able to handle any myriad of issues, well no not the case. Our first level of disconnect was that my initial therapists were Caucasian. There was a certain level of cultural disconnect. I didn’t really feel heard, more like caudled. I wanted to resolve my issues with myself and whatever other ill-conceived notions I had so I could get me and my life back together. I didn’t receive any truly usable tools or processes to began to deal with whatever was lurking in my mind and heart. Plus I was given antidepressants. Now I know that certain medications have their place in medicine. I also know these may be helpful for some people. For me, however, it created a full on downward spiral. I laid in my bed for almost a week straight before I made it to the bathroom that morning.
Suicide seemed like the natural next step. I already ruined my kids lives and they were not happy with me. I was so emotionally distressed I had to take time from work. My husband made it clear he would fight me on the divorce. So there I was trapped. I couldn’t see things getting any better, and I refused to let him be the one to put me in a pine box. Thankfully the Lord thought better of me than I did myself and sent his salvation in first hand to help me rethink my stance on this whole suicide thing. My then 3 year old daughter whose name just happens to mean the salvation of the Lord came smiling into that bathroom in desperate need of her momma. I knew right then my plan needed revamping.
I called my doctor and refused to continue the medication, but also demanded some other assistance. I needed a new therapist, preferably someone black that could help me deal with my issue and understand where I was coming from. It took some patience, extra phone calls, and a departmental review of my ‘case’, but it happened. From the first meeting with my new therapist I knew I could do this. I knew it would be hard and I would need support but I could do it. I also joined a support/therapy group for women who had been abused. The group mirrored what they tell you about domestic violence/abuse. It ranged in age and socioeconomic status and every race was represented there. It felt like home I wasn’t alone. Other people had suffered through my struggle and made it out scarred but okay, and were managing to make themselves better.
By the grace of God and some direction I found hope. I was able to slow down and back away from my desperate need to get out anyway I could and walk through the process. It is a process I’m still walking through. I discovered what situations in my life lead me to accept being abused as normal. I began to deal with my shortcomings and fears through prayer and conversation with my doctor. I no longer needed medication. Within a year of moving out after my divorce was final I was almost sleeping normally. Suicide was the furthest thing from my mind, and I wondered how my thoughts ever scraped so low. I found a new level of acceptance and respect for myself, my life, and my future. Thankfully I can say I still walk with the salvation of the Lord, both literally and figuratively.
Originally published 3/16/16