The Invisible Black Woman

It’s been two weeks since I last posted—well, it’ll be exactly 2 weeks tomorrow but who’s counting, right? Me, obviously. And sure, I have taken the time to post to LinkedIn and Facebook and Instagram, but I ain’t written a post here in a minute. And yes, there are a ton of reasons why that is, but Imma go ahead and call out the biggest reason.

But first, have you ever watched Dexter? It’s this series that came out on one of those prime network channels (Showtime, Cinemax, don’t remember) a while back. One of the things the protagonist talks about often is his dark passenger. That is what he refers to as the thing in him that causes him to do what he does.

Well, my dark passengers are why I’ve been here but not really, posting but not writing in earnest. And even admitting this is not easy. As much love and support as I get, there’s hate and vitriol that comes with it. But the thing that strikes a chord the most are the comments that couch their admonishment “under the blood of Jesus.” Those don’t hurt. They anger me. Ohhhhhhh so much.

Why, you ask? Because those of us who grew up in the church know all too well that religion is often weaponized against those of us who dare to say out loud they struggle with depression or anxiety—or in my case, both. It’s bad enough to admit that as a Black woman, but as a Black Caribbean woman that grew up in the church and still—gasp!—considers herself a Christian? Perish the thought! I mean, only people who don’t have a close walk with Jesus, are unsaved, ain’t sanctified, don’t read their Bible, backslid, or carry a spirit are anxious or depressed. If you are struggling with either of those things, surely you can’t be a person of faith.

Sighs and screams silently in tired, exasperated Black ooman.

Using religion, faith, or the Bible to beat someone over the head about what they struggle with is my ultimate pet peeve. Someday soon I’ll have the courage to outline exactly why, but for now, suffice it to say that I have a very personal and firsthand experience with getting beat upside the head with scripture over my faith, or lack thereof.

It infuriates me to no end when people have the Fraggle Rocking gall to judge you for what you struggle with under the guise of preaching. And I’m sure these very same people have their own vices, but I learned a long time ago that the church has a way of excusing just the stuff that happens in the dark. Once it’s out in the open, then people come out the woodworks on their high perch. And sure, I could ignore the trolls and not give them life, but I don’t write this for them. I write this for those of you who are on this page because I’m writing the quiet, hurtful, traumatic parts out loud that you maybe haven’t told anyone about. I’m standing up for those of you who already feel shitty enough about what you’re feeling, only to see someone come on here and try to dictate how you should or shouldn’t feel. Don’t even get me started on so-called friends and loved ones that tell you something’s wrong with you for feeling this way.

Also, can we talk about the fact that depression and anxiety are so much more than just feelings? And no, it’s not just a chemical imbalance. There are genetic factors to consider, environmental, biological, and sooooooo much more. Can we also talk about the sheer stupidity, imbecilic inaneness, appalling absurdity, and maddening moronicity of saying “it’s just in your head”? Even if that simplistic take is accurate, I’m almost positive your head, or your brain, is inside your skull which, last I checked, is part of your body. So if you are experiencing these conditions, which stem from your brain, that classifies as an illness. The only reason there’s so much stigma around it is because illness is preceded by the word “mental.” And suddenly it makes it less than or not as real as conditions that have to do with any other part of your body.

Miss me with all of that.

If you really want me to break it down in terms that those of you who have all this energy to come rebuking people and making foolish statements under the guise of religion—and let’s be clear, being religious and having a personal walk of faith ain’t the same thing—but I digress. Let me break something down for you. You know what happens when you have the courage to say out loud what it is you are struggling with? It lessens its power. When you are willing to step outside of your comfort zone, afraid and all, and admit you struggle with conditions that ought not be talked about, especially in our community, you can begin to heal.

This isn’t about glorifying or wearing mental illness like a badge of honor. It is about not allowing it to hide in all the secret corners and crevices of our churches, our homes, our communities, our generations. The more we pretend like it doesn’t exist, the more power we give it. I mean, don’t one of the biggest support groups in America if not the world say something about admittance being the first step to recovery? Admittance, okay, not finger pointing, guilt, or shame.

Shame over what we struggle with can very often be the end of us. Worry of how we will be perceived. Embarrassment of what others will think of us or how weak we believe it makes us. Speaking out about our struggles allows others in the same boat to be seen, to know that they’re not alone. It gives people who share the same dark passenger the courage to not just call it out but to seek help.

So no, I won’t shut up about this. No, I won’t allow you to make me or anyone else who sees this as a safe space to feel forever fractured, flawed, or faulty. Whether you believe in a higher power or not doesn’t make you immune from struggling with any form of mental illness. It also doesn’t mean your faith is weak or you’re not praying hard enough.

Something I have been reminded of over these past two weeks is that anxiety and depression don’t look a certain way. What I mean by that is that if you interact with me here or on any other platform, you can’t tell either of those things are happening, even if you were to interact with me in person. Some argue that the label for that is high-functioning [insert whatever condition it is you’re struggling with here]. Some will say there’s no such thing. I’m not a clinician or an expert on the matter, so I can’t say one way or the other what the right answer is there.

What I do know is that depression and anxiety don’t schedule their visits and appearances in advance. Not only that, life doesn’t suddenly put everything on pause because those two knuckleheads decided to stop by. So I’ve gotten really good at pushing through, working while hurting, existing while in agony, shining a light for others while fighting off the darkness. Some days are easier than others. As Black women, we learn to compartmentalize early, especially when it comes to mental illness. But in the end, what you try to hide and shove down deep has a way of making its way out. And the longer you suppress it, the more spectacular the blowout. Think about it from the perspective of ingesting poison bit by bit. It may not impact you immediately but eventually, that won’t end well.

So to you, my beautifully bodacious Black woman who may be struggling with the same dark passengers as me, I say this: I see you. I know what it is to have a hurt that is so vast and deep it seems it will swallow you whole. I know what is is to have an anguish so crippling it manifests in your physical body. I know what is to have trauma so embedded and deep-seated it seems you won’t ever come out the other side.

But you know what else? I know that just like me, you are so needed. You mean the world to those that love you and have the privilege and honor of calling you friend, mother, aunt, wife, sister, cousin, grandmother, girlfriend, partner. I know there is no one else on this earth that is like you and that can do what you do in the way you do it. I know that while you may not be perfect, you are amazing and what you bring is going to help the next Black woman who finds herself in a similar situation out of the pit that they’re in.

I don’t know you personally, but I want you to win in every aspect of your life. I want for you what I want for myself: boundless peace, joy, happiness, and no doggone drama. I want you to disregard the peanut gallery that is shaming you for admitting something they’ll spend the rest of their life denying exists. I want you to know that you know that you know that you know that you know that you so matter. Too damn much to too many people. And, one aside I’m just gonna put out there for you to consider is that the people who are attacked on the daily have the most to contribute to the world. If you believe in a higher power, you likely also believe in a lower power and with that in mind, removing you from the equation gives it an advantage. Please, please, please don’t allow your dark passenger to have the final say in how your story ends. Get help. Talk to someone immediately. And if no one else has told you this today or this week, hear me clearly when I say these words as I channel my inner Hezekiah Walker: you are important to me, to your family and the world. I need you to survive.

Until next time, I wish you nothing but sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns, which are no less fictitious than the brilliant, brave, beautiful badass you are.