can you hear me now?
thoughts on depression, surviving hard shit, the audacity of asking for help, and riding the wave.
*Cover Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash*
This may be one of the most vulnerable posts I've written in a while, and because of that, I've decided to keep it open to my entire community, not just my paid babes. It's paramount that what I'm about to say is not hidden behind some paywall but available to everyone. Consider this a trade for not publishing a “flourish friday” piece this week. However, I invite you to upgrade your subscription if you're interested in receiving more writing directly to your inbox and supporting a Black woman writer.
Trigger warning: mental illness, trauma, death, suicide, grief.
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I'm at what's slowly becoming my favorite cafe. I wonder if beneath the cute fit I bought at Primark in Amsterdam, the freshly cut hair and threaded brows, the gold jewelry I've layered perfectly on my neck and wrist, along with the bracelets I got from a man in Merida that is made out of coconut shell. The latter is my favorite to wear when I go to the beach, but I'm not there today. I'm at a cafe in Mexico City, trying to reset my own algorithm and starve off a depressive episode that's come on unabashedly strong, set on debilitating me. I wonder if people can see through it all, and the stench of struggle radiates from my skin.
The human mind is a fascinating thing. It's tough to grasp its full complexity. It's hard to understand how so much of our well-being depends on it functioning well. Depends on it not being overloaded with information. Depends on it not harboring old rotting trauma. Depends on it being nourished. If the human mind is such an integral part of our existence, why is it so easy to overlook it when it's yelling out for support and care? How much does society's denial of mental health linger on us and result in our inability to see the hurt when it's managed to metastasize into every area of our lives?
One of my friends recently asked me what I would have liked to have happened after I survived a fatal car accident over thirteen years ago. I wish there had been a handbook on how to proceed with life when the unthinkable happens. Maybe it would have taught me how to not roll up my pain and pretend it wasn't slowly ripping me apart. Maybe it would have taught me how to ask for help when unsure of what I needed. Maybe it would have helped me comprehend that my life was forever changed, and trying to live in the past and undo what was already done would only inflict more turmoil. But no such handbook exists, so what other options do I have besides trying my best?
Last year, I was approached about a project highlighting the accident and the experience that led up to it. It threw my equilibrium into such chaos that I soon made the decision to resume anti-depressants after swearing them off ten years earlier. When you paired this with the general stresses of life, I found myself back in a familiar place that made me feel like I was fighting a losing battle. The stress was building, yet I felt unable/unsafe to express myself. It piled in my body like a dumpster overflowing beyond its original boundaries. As time progressed, like a smell that initially assaults your senses and is the only thing present, the stress settled. It was still there, but I'd learned to suppress and live with it—as I always did.
Learning about the project's progression this past weekend flattened me into a two-dimensional version of myself, lacking all the fine details that make me, me. I feel let down, a feeling I don't express often, but one that reigns supreme. In just a matter of days, my mental health has taken such a harsh turn that I'm still processing the excessive whip lash a week later. If my body is keeping score, what is the count? Have I ever been in the lead, or was it all an illusion?
Three years ago, I was feeling suicidal, triggered not only by my own guilt and grief of the accident and the death of my linesisters but the raging feeling of resentment. What felt like an earthquake for me and so many people was seemingly dusted off by others as no more than a light wind that annoyingly blew your hair in your face, strands now sticking to your glossy lips. Months passed before I finally told my best friend and mom I was struggling to keep it together. It felt like someone releasing their hands from around my neck just by voicing it. I could breathe a little bit easier, but the prints of the fingers, the long-reaching grasp of depression and trauma, had left its mark.
In the months leading up to my grandpa's death in September, I'd been calling him, irritated by his not answering nor returning my calls. I'd assumed he'd found himself in the holds of new love. I knew that everything else beyond this ignited flame barely existed. It had not once crossed my mind that his cancer had returned, and he'd decided to forgo telling all but a few. I sat on my best friend's floor, nearly hyperventilating as I told her of the call I'd received from my mama the night before. My grandpa was dying. I hadn't even known he was sick. Then and there, I told myself that I'd do my best to believe that those in my circle were worthy of knowing when I needed support. That I was worthy of having others hold space for me, especially when things felt heavier than usual.
I applaud myself for jumping into action this week for my well-being. I'm glad I've found the courage to say, "It's some shit going on, and I'm not okay. In fact, the fear I feel is crashing through my body. Through my mind." I talked to some of my friends. They offered to help create care plans. To send me food if I can't find the energy to prepare anything for myself. To be there for me, even if there is no fix-all solution they can supply. I emailed my therapist with an update, telling her of the plans in mind to support myself, ranging from using the tools I already have stored in my toolbox to asking the psychiatrist who prescribed my anti-depressants to up my dosage. I told my mama how I'm feeling, even though I know she worries about me more than she'd like to admit and this only adds fuel to the fire. Most notably, I'm not faking the funk and acting like it's all good. Because it isn't. I'm not all good. Plus, I just don't have the energy. I'm tapped, running on fumes, and trying to restore my reserve.
But balance.
I've still found moments to laugh. To savor richly flavoured foods. To smile at the two older women I crossed paths with on the way to run errands. To treat myself to an Oreo milkshake from McDonalds that costs me 59 pesos before walking a few blocks over to people-watch on a Friday night in spring. To smile despite the sadness I feel.
Back in the day, in the initial days and years that followed my accident, I didn't believe anyone else understood the level of turmoil I was battling. It's easier to isolate ourselves than believe someone else can relate to our emotions. Luckily, things have changed, and developing a greater awareness of the collective human suffering has allowed me to offer more compassion to myself and others. This life is unbelievably hard, and everyone's going through something. Everyone's doing their best to survive, and it's critical to remember that survival varies from person to person.
A few years ago, I read an article (author unknown) that asked why we are unwilling to acknowledge that depression, for some, can be life-threatening. How would things change if we didn't look at it as something to get over? Something to pray away? How would we approach conversations around suicide? Around care? Around coping? Around challenges? How would we change the current narrative, often rooted in outdated thoughts and beliefs? How much more would we be allowed to prioritize our healing? Our recovery? How much less would we criticize ourselves for "falling apart" if we knew that this could be a path to putting ourselves back together again?
Right now, I'm in care mode. I need to cushion myself with the things that feel good and help counteract some of the heavy, present emotions. All these years later, there is still no blueprint. There is still no genie that makes it all disappear. There is still no switch in my brain that I can toggle on and off to help slow the flood of emotions. But that doesn't stop me from trying to escape them anyway. I don't know how my emotional state will withstand what I anticipate bulldozing through me like a runaway train. I don't know what time holds. But what I do know is that right now, I'm here, and I'm doing the best I can.
Anyone who needs suicide or mental health-related crisis support, or who has a loved one in crisis, can connect with a trained counselor by calling, chatting, or texting 988.
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Thank you for sharing boo! I’m so glad it resonated with you in some way. Sending you all the love 🤎
I'm glad you've found the courage to say "It's some shit going on, and I'm not okay. In fact, the fear I feel is crashing through my body. Through my mind." It is so hard to not only admit we need help, but to also ask for the support from those who love us. So many are waiting and ready to show up for us when we have the courage to ask, I know this was one of the biggest lessons of the pandemic for me. I had no choice but to lean on my system of support. Thank you for writing this.