Fighting to Survive

Sometimes it's hard to talk about difficult personal issues with anyone. Some topics are taboo or simply misunderstood. Some people pass instant judgment or make assumptions that are often incorrect, incomplete, or downright idiotic.

One of the hush-hush topics in the African-American community is mental illness. Although many people are impacted by the disease, no one wants to talk about it. We would rather shuttle Aunt So-and-So off to the back room when company comes so that nobody knows our precious family secret. Heaven forbid, she might embarrass the family. Oh no! We can't have that. What will the neighbors think?

Our collective unwillingness to engage in open, non-judgmental dialogue about mental illness is one of the reasons many are still held captive by this insidious disease. I have battled clinical depression since I was 14 years old. My diagnosis, which I still have yet to share with my family, occurred when I was 21 years old.

I recognized the stigma attached to mental illness long before my own diagnosis came. In my family, mental illness meant you were weak. You either just gave up or you didn't have enough faith in God. After all, how could you be depressed if you believe in God? I totally understand the spiritual argument. In fact, in some instances I've used that line of reasoning on myself. And sometimes, that argument has prevailed victoriously over my depression. But in some instances, my self-talk couldn't overcome that mountain before me. Sometimes, depression landed on me with its full weight - heavy, oppressive and suffocating. Still to this day, that internal battle wages within me, how can I be a born-again Christian and still experience depression?

At 21, I dropped out of college, quit my job, and basically stayed in my apartment for months on end. Unable to perform the simplest of tasks like washing dishes or doing laundry. Even bathing was a monumental task. The only thing I seemed capable of was crying for hours on end, imagining and envisioning the worst, feeling worthless, and having no idea how to unearth myself from my own personal tomb.

During my adolescence and early adult years, my family's characterizations of me were less than flattering. I can recall one Sunday afternoon and a dinner gathering hosted by my mother. She invited some of her church friends over to eat and fellowship. I'm not sure what testimonies my mother gave in church, but one of the church elders had no qualms in telling me just how lazy he thought I was over the course of that dinner. I can't really fault the man for his opinion. What hurt my heart was the absence of a mere shabby defense or even a simple, lackluster protest voiced by any family member present. This elder simply spoke what everyone else felt, but they were pleasant enough to keep to themselves.

To someone like myself battling depression, the elder's words weren't exactly messages of hope, encouragement, assistance, or consolation. In fact, his uninformed judgment and many such like, plunged my fragile psyche into an even more precarious state.

Why am I talking about this now? Because I am fighting to stave off another major episode of depression at this very moment in time. And I feel that my offense, my survival, my weaponry is linked to my willingness to be transparent, honest, and forthright about my struggle. I am, in essence, fighting to survive.

I have so much more I want to say on this topic because of my intimate acquaintance with depression, along with its vast devastation and the debilitating effects left in its quake. But alas, one must get enough sleep if he/she is going to rejoin the fight tomorrow. God bless and please pray for me.