By Brittany Johnson

I was tired. Not just physically, I-really-need-a-power-nap, set the alarm tired. Tired as in, "I'm so emotionally and mentally exhausted that I can hardly get out of bed in the morning." Tired as in, "I'm not sure if I can continue at this pace, in this brain, with this amount of overthinking." From the outside looking in, I was going through all of the right motions. Meditating before I went to sleep - check. Trying to recognize moments of gratitude during the day - check. Encouraging friends and family to spread their light and love their truths - double check. But on the inside, I was killing myself ever so softly.

The hardest part about coming to grips with my anxiety and depression was that I didn’t feel like I even deserved to feel this way. I came from a loving, supportive family and grew up in a safe neighborhood. I didn’t have an absent father or an emotionally inept mother. My grandparents were the lights of my life and God was continually showing up for me in more ways than one. I did not deserve to feel sad, anxious, and mentally weary day in and day out. I did not deserve to experience the symptoms of depression so deeply that, at times, I was unable to hold simple conservations or sustain meaningful relationships.

It is lies like these, the secret ones we tell ourselves, that are responsible for holding back our recognition, acceptance, and subsequent healing.
Dealing with physical and emotional trauma as a young adult ended up exasperating the tendencies that already existed under the surface. I suffered a random, violent physical attack in my early 20s that left me with the scars, bruising, and hospital visits to prove it. The physical wounds eventually healed on their own - the emotional ones did not. I previously thought that PTSD was reserved for real heroes, who suffered from “real trauma”...soldiers, public servants, unrelenting activists. It wasn’t until a routine checkup (for previous brain swelling, among other things, from the attack) that the doctor questioned what I had been doing to heal mentally. Pause. My idea of therapy was sitting on an old velvet chaise lounge while a Caucasian man in his late 50s asked me, “how do you feel about that”. I was in denial of how much help I needed, and I was angry. I wanted to be brave enough to fix this on my own. It could’ve been much worse! I wasn’t raped, or permanently maimed. I could get past this! The reality was, it had been over a year since that night. I still had weekly nightmares, had caused the demise of my own social life and friendships, and ended up engaging in a codependent relationship that left me more damaged than it found me. I eventually left the relationship and made some progress in my personal life but continued to push away people who truly wanted the best for me. Later, it had been over two years since the attack and I was still a sad, super anxious, overthinking, anti-social, unmotivated mess.

I finally realized that I could not get past it any of it, not on my own.

My first day of therapy felt like an awkward first date. I was blessed enough to find a highly recommend black woman psychotherapist practicing in my area. It was so much different than I had expected - she was warm, personable, and never asked me “how do you feel about that”. It wasn’t just me dumping my problems out to a silent, head-nodding authority; we proceeded to have a real, honest conversation. To be able to share my innermost feelings with another black woman made me feel as though taking this step towards inner peace was not something foreign, or undeserved. I felt supported and strong.

There is strength in taking hold of the hardest parts of your life by recognizing how much of an effect they have on your daily existence. There is strength in realizing that you need help tackling the speed bumps of your mental health journey and in proceeding to seek that help.

Going to therapy was a deeply personal choice. It was an important step for me to recognize that as a black woman, there are certain trials that I’ll deal with at the intersection of gender and race that some people will never understand. It was important to realize that aside from societal pressures and constraints, going through further trauma in my own life was a burden that, at times, was entirely too heavy to carry alone.

I’m still attending sessions, and I’m still working towards being cognizant of mindfulness and well-being in all areas of my life. It isn’t easy, and there isn’t a new epiphany every day. What there IS is an innermost calm in knowing that I can better recognize my triggers when they first occur and meet them where they start. There IS a subtle confidence in knowing that I do deserve to feel whole, loved, and happy. There IS a steadfast faith in knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that I deserve healthy and mutually respectful relationships, and what’s truly for me will always be within my reach.

Cheers to the grace that’s found in taking care of self, simply because we deserve it.

---

Brittany Johnson is the creator of codeREDD&co. and works in community marketing and content creation in the Bay Area. Passionate about authenticity in wellness and self care, her writing is heavily inspired by the peaks and pitfalls that come as the result of being a black woman working to manifest her purpose. 

by Arielle Gray

“Would you cure it?” she asked me with wide eyes. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know, your bipolar disorder? Can you do that? I’m sure you can!”

I just tentatively opened up to a long time friend about my long time struggle with managing my Bipolar Disorder. Recently, I became more open about my mental illness and was trying to be honest with the people in my life about what I went through on the daily.
I got a lot of questions from friends and family. Mostly “I would’ve never guessed!” or “You hide it well” or “What’s Bipolar Disorder?” But never before was I asked if I would cure it if ever I could. She wasn’t trying to be malicious or problematic when she tentatively asked me that question. But when she whispered my illness, she unconsciously cloaked it in secrecy and shame. I could tell she was uncomfortable with the situation- I could see it in her eyes every time she glanced down at my scared forearms.

For y’all that don’t know, there’s currently no way to cure Bipolar Disorder. Traditional methods include medication and therapy sessions, depending on the severity. I went through various bouts of self-harming behavior when I was younger and in college, I spiraled out of control. I went to see this doe eyed, white psychiatrist who immediately suggested a hospital stay because of my suicidal ideation. Those eyes stayed strangely blank & glassy as I told her about all of my angst.

When I assured her that I was mostly bark & no bite, she wrongly prescribed me Prozac, thinking that I was clinically depressed when I was really in the midst of a severe depressive episode. The Prozac did me in. I failed all of my classes and had to drop out of college and fly back home to ATL. After cycling through a few therapists, I was correctly diagnosed and started on a regimen of medication & therapy sessions. Since then, I’ve managed via a myriad of methods, mainly therapy, weed and spiritual-examination. I’m lucky enough to be able to manage my symptoms- many are not able to.

A lot of people don’t understand when I tell them about my disorder. Black folk seem to live in this mysterious veil where we think we’re wholly unaffected by mental illnesses. Depression can be cured with prayer, suicidal thoughts are spelled away by the “strong Black woman” trope. We’re especially disenfranchised when it comes to mental health because we stand at a unique intersection of race & gender. Low-income Black women are particularly high risk for experiencing depression at some point in our life and we are also the demographic least likely to seek professional help.

There are stigmas rooted so deep in our culture surrounding mental illness that over one half of Black Americans think long term depression is normal. That’s. Not. Okay. I could write an entirely different piece about the insensitivity of our mental health care system and how our institution’s lack of cultural sensitivity and the normalization of black bodies in conjunction with pain has created a vacuum of space for black women to safely address their mental health concerns.

So when she asked, “Would you cure it?”, I realized that what she was really saying is “Wouldn’t you just want to be normal?” I realized that her inability to connect with my story about mental illness was symbolic of a larger societal & systemic problem- the failure to see black women as vulnerable human beings. Her question centered the conversation around my mental illness and reinforced it as a “problem”.

The longer I thought about her question, the more and more I realized that no, I wouldn’t want to cure myself. “Curing” myself, to me, implies that I have something to be ashamed of, something insidious inside of me that needs extraction- the exact opposite is true.
Living life with Bipolar Disorder is hard. There are weeks where I want to die, weeks where I have days long bouts of insomnia. There are times when my manic episodes cause me to forget to eat. There are times when things get so dark that I think about hurting myself again like I used to do. But ultimately, no matter how fucked it is, this is my brain. My disorder has inherently shaped and in many ways, enhanced my life. Having a mental illness is not always limiting- sometimes, it opens our eyes to how ephemeral yet precious things are. Sometimes, it shows us life exactly as it is- beautiful and at the same time, saccharinely cruel.

I have never appreciated the sunlight more than when I’ve managed to drag myself out of that deep dark pit. Embracing my shadow has allowed me to step more fully into my purpose in life. To live in my truth. There are no bigger demons to face than my own. I face them every night.

My Bipolar Disorder is a part of me. It always will be. If there is eventually a cure, I hope that whoever needs or seeks it receives it. But for me, it’s more than a disorder- it’s now a part of my identity. I am able to write the way I do because I’ve experienced darkness. I am able to connect with other people like me because I’ve gone through the things I’ve gone through. I am able to, in some small way, be a voice for the millions of Black women who stay quiet when it comes to their mental health. My story is not my own, it is ours.

That in itself is a blessing.

Arielle Gray is a Boston based freelance writer, graphic artist & music journalist. You can catch her stalking live shows around the city or eating Lucy's on Mass Ave.

by Cynthia Hines

Three weeks ago, while finishing up my psychotherapy session, I checked my phone. It was Millie, the all-knowing senior citizen in my condo building. Think Ruby Dee’s character of Mother Sister in Do The Right Thing.

I answered. “Cynthia, this is Millie,” she said. “I just wanted to let you know that your front door is wide open and I think somebody just broke into your home.”

People who have experienced a burglary can relate to this sense of invasion. The terror. The mystery of who (and why) someone would do this to me. It’s always personal. I had a mix of feelings of anger, guilt, shame and a desire to get revenge. But for me, any invasion to my home—in both the physical structure and the temple God has me in—needs immediate attention. I have post-traumatic stress disorder, commonly referred to as PTSD.

Here’s some background. I’m a veteran who, in August 2013, worked as a civilian contractor on a base in Afghanistan. During a well-orchestrated attack, a suicide bomber drove a truck loaded with explosives to the base and detonated himself, creating a hole in the wall where another dozen Taliban members were able to enter. They were looking for soldiers and civilians so they could detonate themselves, taking as many people down with them as possible. Even by Afghanistan standards, the attack was significant. We were sent to the bunker where we stayed for 15 hours, hearing a barrage of explosions and gunfire. Most of us contractors were unarmed. I was terrified, immobilized with fear and certain I would die that day.

“God, I can’t go out like this. You know what? I give in. I’m going to die today. But please God, just let my body be in one piece when You take me. I don’t want my family to see me blown into little pieces.” The incident left me feeling helpless and demoralized. The Taliban took complete custody of my body and they were not letting it go.

What many people don’t understand about PTSD is how terrifying it is to live in your own body after a traumatic event. Sufferers have no way of knowing what body sensation will arise; when we’ll “lose it,” or when we will be “invaded” by intrusive thoughts that come without warning.

Our bodies get hijacked by these thoughts and feelings, making it difficult to concentrate on the present. We are stuck in the past, and the past is a scary place. The intrusive thoughts leave many of us ashamed to talk about them for fear of being seen as crazy and desperate for a way to avoid our collective pain. "[Sufferers] are likely to experiment with anything—drugs, alcohol, binge eating, or cutting—that offers some kind of relief," said Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, a Harvard-trained psychiatrist and trauma expert, in his book The Body Keeps The Score: Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma.

I was eventually sent home from Afghanistan for medical treatment. Home was a small condo on the south side of Chicago, a neighborhood plagued by its own share of violence. My trip back home left me asking if I had exchanged one combat zone for another.

BOOM! Two weeks after I arrived home, my car was burglarized while parked in my garage.

BOOM! Shortly thereafter, a grandmother and her two grandchildren were shot within 200 feet of my front door.

BOOM! Don’t drive over those manhole covers! They might explode. And while you’re at it, avoid dead animals on the street! The enemy may have strapped an explosive on them! The enemy is everywhere.

BOOM! I hear something at my back door. I think I do. No, that’s my imagination. No, it’s real. Tell someone that you’re hearing sounds! No, they’ll think I’m crazy.

BOOM! What was this dream about the beheaded men invading my body I had last night, and why can’t the ISIS soldiers stop chasing me and trying to destroy my skin and internal organs? They’re closing in on me!

BOOM! Okay, I’m parking on the street now. Why is there a loud sound when I turn on my car? Is it a bomb? No, someone cut out my catalytic converter. Why is everyone trying to do me harm?

BOOM! My father just triggered me. I am the wrong one. I didn’t kill the fool who tried to steal my car but I won’t let my daddy talk to me any way he wants to and get away with it just because he’s my daddy. If he wants to act like an enemy combatant, I’ll treat him like one. Does he know I am one trigger away from killing somebody? THEY won’t go to war with me and be victorious this time. Oh, hell no.

BOOM! Turn off the damn TV. The police are looking for a… there was an explosion in a journalist was kidnapped while... a soldier returning home from Iraq committed suicide… a veteran is being charged with… Turn off the damn TV. Wait. Turn off the damn TV? And what will I do? What is the alternative? Hear the intrusive thoughts in my head?

 I’ll just eat. Yes, that will solve everything. Well, at least for a few minutes.

None of these incidents are remarkable in and of themselves. What has been different since returning home is how just the slightest issue has sent me over the edge, convicted in the belief that someone was after me. This is hypervigilance in its most raw form.

These are some of my experiences on the road to my recovery since 2013. This recovery has gone through hills and valleys, over scenic views as well as dark alleys. It has been complicated by my physical injuries. It has also been complicated by the loss of my mother from ovarian cancer less than a year after coming home.

I now practice yoga, which requires my body to be fully present. I strive to take the skills learned in yoga to remain calm, centered, and present when faced with fearful experiences and disturbing thoughts and images.

I also started acting, something I ironically was too afraid to do before joining the military. Acting allows me to express all my emotions without apology and to engage with other people, which is crucial for those with PTSD.

Most important, I found a church home that offers me an opportunity to have a trusting relationship with God. Trust is everything.

I’ve also learned to do the unthinkable: asking for help. That meant telling my father the pain I was in and asking that he call me from Milwaukee at least once a week to check in on me. It also meant asking friends to help me pack up my modest condo. I knew that in order to heal, I could not stay another night there and moved out that weekend following the break-in. I removed the cape of the Strong Black Woman. I can’t do it alone. My recovery cannot take place in isolation. And my recovery is far from over.

PTSD has given me the gift of recognizing when I’m in fear and seeking help. Like a good soldier, I stayed around to fight a battle that, like the wars we have waged in Iraq and Afghanistan, had no end in sight. I surrender my old self to God and make way for the new me. And surrendering has made me stronger than I could have ever imagined.

by Bobby London

I am here sitting in my bed fighting my depression, trying not to bask in somberness for too long, pondering how I’m going to shatter ceilings with three generations on my back. I’ve always been nervous and scared about writing so personally about myself in such a non-intimate way, but I find myself in a writer’s block that only raw honesty can chip away. There’s a feeling of liberation that comes with being vulnerable, and of course there is also tons of anxiety that comes with that as well. I also wonder about the security culture aspect of this personal disclosure and how wise is it for me to discuss such things in a time when all keystrokes are being analyzed and stored for the State to use later. Maybe in the future I’ll regret revealing so much, but for now I will choose self-empowerment over strategic resistance.

Or maybe the act is both.
I think it’s interesting that when I talk about my depression in a public manner people usually feel the need to prescribe things to help the situation. As if I have a cold and I just need to drink some lemon tea or something, not understanding that depression is, at least for me, something that is structurally created. I am depressed because I live in a white-supremacist, patriarchal, capitalist world. I am depressed because people that look like me are constantly being murdered. I am depressed because the State has purposely made it difficult for black families like mine to survive. I am depressed because I have suffered traumas from white supremacy and the police state. I am depressed because the only way this will end is if we have continual revolutions. I am depressed because I don’t know if I’m going to know how it feels to be free.

I do not understand how more people aren’t depressed in this world. I find that people are quick to blame depression on the person who has it. I’ve been told often, “well you just got to focus on the positive”. Like, oh wow, why haven’t I thought of that? I’ll just simply ignore my circumstances and just find the good things in life, like peanut butter with chocolate or pool parties. Yeah, there you go, that’s it.

When someone declares that they are depressed there is this fear and uncomfortability that happens to those that are listening. People are uncomfortable with the honesty and self-awareness, they see the sadness as a weakness, as something to be addressed.

But, I am not weak, and my depression is not weakness.

The awareness is isolating. Which makes sense that social anxiety is such a common thing for black people and non-blacks in intentional resistance spaces. It feels as though this country and its cohabitants are constantly gaslighting you. When people ask me “how are you doing?” or “why are you depressed?” I wonder if this is someone’s extreme privilege and distance from my struggle that allows for them to be so naive, or are they just willfully ignorant?

My depression is not a mental health problem, it is not fixable by seeing a therapist, or popping any pills. My depression is the direct result of anti-blackness and all of the cruelty that this country has shown to black people. My depression is political and should be treated as such.

I think of Sandra Bland often, the picture of her mugshot still haunts me. It shows the capability of the state, the level of fascism, and organized badge wearing white supremacists. When I watch the video of her arrest, the whole time I thought that could have been me. It reminded me of a recent event where I was encircled by heavily armed police officers and threatened to be arrested for cop watching and asking the police officers why they were using excessive force on a man that you could hear his waling from down the street. Even though I had my press badge on me they told me that they would gladly arrest me. I told them that if they arrested me that I would take them and the LAPD to court. More police officers arrived in riot gear, with shotguns ready in hand. I was intimidated, and successfully bullied away from the scene.
I think about what if I would have stayed and was arrested, would they have murdered me, and if so, would they try to cover it up as a suicide? I wonder if they would use my depression to aid in their cover up.

I know that we live in a surveillance state, but I refuse to be silenced about the violence that is consistently being inflicted onto me and others. My resistance is strategic and I’m allowed to be vulnerable. So if the State ever wanted to kill me and tried to rule it as a suicide, here it all is – your “Exhibit A”.

by Hanâ Zait, Legal Advocate and Intern at Justice Now

Nine years after the California Department of Corrections lost control of their health care system to a federal oversight body due to inhumane conditions caused by overcrowding, moves to reduce the prison population and regain control of prison healthcare are not impacting women’s prisons in the same way that they are men’s prisons.

The “cruel and unusual punishment” of the system that illegally sterilized people in women’s prisons continues to cause significant pain and suffering for people behind these walls. Substandard living conditions are made worse by measures to address overcrowding that do not return people in women’s prisons to their communities.

Justice Now surveyed people at Central California Women's Facility and California Institution for Women, the two women’s prisons in California, regarding the effects of the grotesque levels of overcrowding they were faced with. Surveys, with names removed, from both 2014 and 2015 indicate that overcrowding in California's women's prisons has exacerbated longstanding issues, making already inhumane living conditions even worse. More than half of those surveyed described experiencing some level of difficulty accessing healthcare.

Additionally, in the surveys many people noted that stress levels had increased and tempers were shorter as a result of the substandard living conditions. Over 80 percent of people said that they “have witnessed and/or experienced more violence within the prison,” yet what’s more alarming is that two thirds said that they “have witnessed an increased number of deaths, suicides, or attempted suicides.”

Many people also report reduced access to things like educational classes and self-help groups. Hakim Anderson, serving a 15-life sentence at Central California Women's Facility  noted, “the waiting list [for educational and vocational programs] could be 2 to 3 years long, and these are things that we [lifers] are required to take.” They added that the college waiting list is worse, saying, “there's like 400 or 500 people on the list and that [wait] can be close to three years.” Hakim said that the waiting list is so long that they might get a date for parole before getting into college classes again.



Another issue people brought up in the surveys was the difficulty in accessing sanitary supplies such as toilet paper, pads, tampons, and hand soap, which increases health risks. In order to get pads and tampons in prison, people have to request them from the guards, and they are often asked to provide proof of their period to receive menstrual supplies (e.g. by showing the guard a used tampon or pad). Tracy Jones, a member of Justice Now who has been recently released from Central California Women's Facility explained, this is “degrading, sexist, and downright disrespectful,” because “I shouldn’t have to ask you to give me something that I need that the state is giving you money to buy for me that should just be given to me.”

Historically, this has not been a resource issue, but rather a way to continue to dehumanize people. Forcing people in prisons to justify their need for pads and tampons is indicative of the way our society perceives people in prisons. It is this devaluing of people in prison that allows the living conditions in women’s prisons to continue to be so abysmal, which also has serious consequences on the wellbeing of those in women’s prisons. Overcrowding at both women’s prisons has impeded mental health care access to the point that in 2014, California Institution for Women’s suicide rate was 7.6 times the suicide rate for all people in prison in California and 12.7 times the national suicide rate for women in prison. When people are treated as less than human, it inevitably impacts their mental health.

Part of the problem is that we continue to shove people into women’s prisons at an alarming rate. From 1932 till 2003 (approximately 71 years), there were approximately 99,999 admissions into women’s prisons in California. From 2004 to 2012, a period of eight years, California’s women’s prisons had approximately 65, 091 admissions. This drastic increase in the number of people entering California’s women’s prisons highlights a crisis we have yet to address.

In order to address these issues it is necessary to tackle them from multiple points. First, the state needs to invest more money and resources into addressing the entry points for incarceration. This includes examining arrest rates and understanding causes of arrest, thereby allowing us to find ways to reduce the number of people entering prisons. A major part of preventing incarceration is investing money into things that strengthen our communities, such as education and healthcare.

One solution that could have reaching impacts for women and mothers is repealing the Maximum Family Grant to CalWORKS recipients. CalWORKS is a welfare program that gives monetary aid and other services to eligible families in the state. The grant was introduced in the 1990’s as a way to punish and discourage poor women from having children by denying them additional aide and food stamps, often forcing parents into tough circumstances and criminalized choices simply to feed their families. Another solution is to examine and take action against the school to prison pipeline, which maintains the prison-industrial complex through the criminalization and punishment of Black children from young ages, as shown by multiple studies.

Second, we need more sustainable sentence reforms and decarceration strategies in order to reduce the number of people in prisons and to bring people back home to their communities. One example is SB 219, a law Justice Now co-sponsored that would expand the existing alternative custody program, which allows people to go home from prison early. These policies should not only be for those with non-violent, non-serious, non-sexual offenses (also known as “non/non/nons”). Doing so results in a sense of hopelessness and worthlessness for those who are left out and not considered for release as a result of being continually ignored and excluded in policy changes, despite the fact that people with serious or violent offenses "return to prison at a lower rate than [people] with a non-serious/non-violent offense."

Finally, we need more programs like our fellowship program that support people coming home from prisons so that they have the resources and community support they need to stay home and out of prison. Justice Now’s fellowship program breaks down employment barriers faced by people recently released from women’s prisons by providing a paid position without paying attention to their conviction. By combining these tactics and by working directly with people in prison we can continue to work together towards sustainable strategies for decarceration and for preventing incarceration.

Photo: Shutterstock

Hanâ is a student in her final year at UCSC majoring in Community Studies and Sociology. She has been an intern with Justice Now in Oakland since May 2015, where she has worked to amplify the voices of people inside women’s prisons. Justice Now partners with people in women's prisons and local communities to build a safe, compassionate world without prisons. We center the lived experience of people directly impacted by the prison system and support the leadership of activists and organizers inside and recently released from women’s prisons. Our work includes direct legal services, medical advocacy, peer education, and policy and media campaigns.

by Iresha Picot

She yelled all the time.

Yelled about the house not being cleaned.

Yelled about my school work.

Yelled about spending too much time on the phone.

Yelled that the music was too loud.

She just always yelled.

I can remember thinking about cutting her vocal box out of her once. Or a few times. I told her this in a fit of rage, when I was about 16. She just looked at me and yelled some more. I am pretty sure that Audre Lorde was talking about my mama when she said, “I am deliberate and afraid of nothing”.
My mama didn’t always yell. When I was a young girl, my mama was noted for her laughter and the jokes she told to not only her own children, but to the children who would come over to our home. They loved my mama’s jokes and her eagerness to make everyone laugh.
I have fond memories of my mama as a child. She used to let me rest on her lap all the time or ride me on the back of her bike as we went on adventures through our small country town. As the youngest of three girls, I used to have her all to myself when my sisters would go off to school and my dad went to work. And we had fun. Going to her girlfriend’s home, to the beauty salon, out to eat; wherever my Mama went, I was right there with her. Even when my sisters came home from school, there were good times to be had by all. On Saturdays, she would walk the three of us, hand and hand to the Three Guys restaurant for pizza across the train tracks from our home; telling us jokes the whole way. On Sundays, we awoke to pancakes being cooked, and the Alvin and the Chipmunks record being played on our record player. We danced, and laughed. We enjoyed our Mama.
Then things changed. My dad became addicted to crack cocaine. Things became hard. My mother started to laugh less. She started yelling more.

Her workload increased as well.

With my daddy’s addiction, his paycheck would be depleted in two days. Sometimes the same day. Bills weren’t getting paid, and we struggled. We moved at least once a year. Sometimes twice. Our electricity was never on. We couldn’t even afford the $25 dollars for our books at school. My mother started working 2 to 3 jobs to compensate for my father’s habit. She rarely slept, going from one job to the next. We hardly saw her and when we did, we stayed out of her way if we didn’t want to be yelled at. Even moments that seem to be fun times with my mother turned sour. I can vividly remember on one of her rare off days watching our favorite television show, Martin, together. We went from busting it up, laughing loudly at Martin’s punch lines, to her becoming upset. Her mood could change like a light switch.

She would suddenly look up and realize that the house was dirty and the yelling and cursing would start. “Why is the house so fucking dirty?” or “I work all damn day and no one washed the dishes.” It got to a point where we started to enjoy her being away from the home. It was peaceful.
She also developed these control issues. Probably because her own life was spinning out of control. She couldn’t make our plight much better, even by working several jobs. She couldn’t stop her husband from smoking crack. The only little bit of control she had was overpowering her children. If we didn’t do something my mama wanted, she went into her rages. She hid the home telephone when she went to work, and we were trapped in the house without being able to communicate to anyone. She did this, too, with simple things such as the soap powder. If she was mad at us, we couldn’t wash clothes. This was the same for the iron, the cable cord, the soda. She had to have control over everything. Over us. But not herself.

I have great empathy for my mama’s plight now. She struggled to raise children in poverty by herself, and in return, she developed mental health problems. As a mental health professional, I now understand that my mother was suffering from stress related mental health issues. My mama was unhappy in her own life. Even with a husband present, she was raising her children up as an overworked, Single Black Mother. She fell into her own stereotypes. In Black communities, Black women aren’t supposed to crack. We are not supposed to become depressed, even when we experience poverty, poor and unstable living conditions, psychosocial challenges, and white supremacy.

Just because we are Black and Woman.

Black Women, as the keepers of children, suffer silently. They have to be present under this system to raise vibrant children. It is a difficult task, at best, because if our children do not flourish under our rearing, it is the mamas who have to answer for those failures. As the great bell hooks stated, we must “cherish our mothers,” not just uphold them for the things that they do for us, but also assist them in making their load lighter. If we see a mother struggling, we have to be there as a community to lift her up and when we see her not doing well, we have to be able to assist in creating a space for her to be able to say that she is tired and needs help. Yes, we need to cherish mothers.

After I wrote this piece, I decided to not only share the content with my mother, but to also include her voice. What follows is an interview that I did with her when she came to visit me on 5/14/15.
Conversation with my Mama

Iresha: What were some of the struggles you faced with basically raising your children by yourself?

Mom: Trying to pay the bills. The bills were always on my mind. It was a constant worry. Also, for five years, I did not work, and with your father’s drug problem, not only was I thrown into having to go to work, I had to work 2 to 3 jobs, which means I always had to go to work and leave my children around.

Iresha: The name of this piece is called “The Mama that Yelled.” Do you think that you yelled a lot when you were raising your children?

Mom: To be honest, yes. I didn’t know that at the time, but I see how it affected you now. My mother yelled, and her mother yelled. We were just a yelling family and it seemed normal. But yes, I can say I yelled at you all a lot.

Iresha: Do you ever reflect back on that time and wonder what you could have done differently? If so, what are you doing now with your children to change those patterns?

Mom: I could have been a better mom with my attitude and did family things with my children.

Iresha: Do you think that you suffered from depression at that time?

Mom: Absolutely. I just had so much on me and it was kind of hard. I was away from my family in DC and so I had no family here in Virginia for my own personal support. Your dad’s family helped me out a lot with raising you all, but I had no one to talk about my husband being on drugs and having to struggle. I cried all the time. I cried in the morning, at work. Especially, when your father would come home on pay day and there was no money. He had spent it on drugs.

Iresha: What advice would you give mamas, raising children by themselves?

Mom: Whatever you do, put your children first. Be a good mother to your children. And for the mothers and their own health, use your support systems and look to God; because to me that is looking up.

Photo: Shutterstock

Iresha Picot, M.Ed, BSL is a Licensed Behavior Specialist and Therapist in Philadelphia. Iresha is also an activist, with a lot of her work concentrating on prison abolitionist and birth work as a Doula. Her Doula website is 52ndstreetdoula.com

by Vanessa Hazzard

I thought I was well. It’s been over a year since I stopped cutting and almost two years since I’ve been released from the hospital after being treated for borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder and PTSD. Since then, I’ve held a steady job and re-enrolled in a Bachelors degree program. My life had been successfully recalibrated after years of trauma. That life was so far in the rear view mirror, so small, that it seemed just a blip on the radar compared to all the good things that lay before me.

by Dee Rene

“When did things get this bad?”

Opening the door to my apartment after a stint in the hospital from a mental breakdown was sobering. Everything was the same as I had left it, a pot in the sink, a jacket tossed carelessly over the couch, and yet nothing was the same at all. There was no work to go to on Monday because depression had swallowed me whole and I was now on disability. There were no classes to prepare for because I hadn’t been able to keep up with the course work when things fell apart. Friends were gone, family deaths and romantic love was nothing but a festering painful memory.

Welcome to rock bottom. Bad days had come and gone but I had managed to find a way to survive. Somehow this was different. I had no idea where to go, what to do, who to call or even where to start.

Rock bottom is that devastating moment where you realize there is no lower point, although you are sure it could be worse and that things are “worse” for other people, this is the lowest it’s ever been for you and moving from this place seems impossible. However, if you resist the urge to make rock bottom a grave, you may see that rock bottom can ultimately benefit your life. J.K. Rowling spoke the truth in her Harvard Commencement Speech when she said, “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I built my life.”




Here are some lessons I learned when I hit rock bottom.

You must deal with yourself. No more distractions. No more money. No more friends and fun. It is just you and your mess. Stop blaming anyone else and stop getting lost in hypotheticals of how things in the past could have been different. All you can deal with is right now. Now what? Rock bottom is not the time to call yourself a failure but it is the time to admit when you screwed up. Separate your worth as a person from the actions that led you here.

You discover the beauty in starting over. Rebuilding is daunting but you can find encouragement in knowing that now you have a chance to rebuild in a way that you truly desire and need. Rebuild friendships or let them go. Find your dream job or finally go after what you really want. Now is the time, as your life has been stripped of what you once held so dearly, you can evaluate what is really important. When you get past the crippling pain, find the strength in letting go and the beauty in starting over.

With your back to the wall, and your resources depleted, you learn one simple truth about yourself – you can overcome the worst moment of your life. It becomes fuel for survival. No one is stronger than the person who reached their breaking point and lived to tell the tale. Limits become fluid and you understand that slamming into the wall of life hurts like hell but recovery is possible.

Rock bottom makes you an example of survival. Someone else is waiting on your survival through your darkest times so that you can encourage them about how to crawl out of the hole.




Although you won’t see it in the moment, hitting rock bottom can actually improve your life. Rock bottom can become a mirror, a clean slate, a testimony and a teaching tool for others. Give yourself space and time to hurt, to understand and assess your pain, to grieve your losses, and then… get up. Get back up and live your life because if you are still breathing, rock bottom is a stepping stone and not a grave.

By M'Shai S. Dash

The moment he closed the bathroom door, the guilt washed over me and I gathered my clothing as quickly as I could. I was still disoriented from all the alcohol I’d consumed at the legislative conference we’d both attended. Sighing heavily, I double-checked my bejeweled clutch for my credit cards and black makeup compacts (as both things are of nearly equal importance to my daily life, and I wasn’t sure if the contents had fallen on the floor when I’d accidentally kicked it off of his king-sized bed during sex precisely—and sadly—just six minutes before). Once I heard the toilet flush and water running I picked up the pace. I tiptoed down the hallway of (Charles’? Simon’s?) modest one-bedroom apartment, glancing briefly at his address on a piece of mail that lay on a table by his door before stepping out into the coolness of the late September evening. Down the dark corridor and out into the artificial, fluorescent light of his apartment building’s second floor landing I went, light on my feet as I could possibly be. I slipped on the sequined peep-toe pumps I’d been holding only when I’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

By Ericka Wilkins

At my age, having never been married nor birthed children, it’s easy to dry up into the stereotype of a Mammy or a Sapphire. Both identities originate in slavery, created from a desire to suck the humanity out of Black women and to minimize us into persons whose sole purpose of existing was to be of service to others. Both of these images require Black women to forget that we deserve to be soft, tender and loved, along with our strong, resilient and caring edges, in an effort to lessen the lifestyles that we deserve.

Ever feel like you are everything to everyone, and that you are good at it, but “damn” you get tired? Among close-knit circles, I jokingly talk about this as the need to “grow another set of boobs” so that I can nurture more babies. Corporate women may experience this when they agree to mentor yet another promising young Black career person, while stifling the fact that they barely have time to nurture their own careers. Another example of this can be found among women who are leaders in their churches, serving on numerous ministries, and somehow still find time to serve the needs of family and friends. For a single woman, being identified as a “mammy” in our communities is likely met with appreciation and reverence. And it’s fucking exhausting.


Living a life primarily in the service of others, while reaping very little return benefit, can be spiritually draining. Pouring into others while feeling like your own cup is not being poured into, can exhaust women with even the greatest emotional endurance. The hopeful mentee, who you once greeted with excitement, is now viewed as a needy succubus who drains you emotionally. And if they spend another moment in your office they might literally start draining your bank account, as you spend so much time with them that you don’t have time to work towards your own lucrative promotion. The church folks who you used to joyfully serve become people for whom you issue daily prayers. Asking God to be a covering over your mouth because if these people start mess one more time…

If the mammy is the nurturer or self-sacrificial caretaker, then the Sapphire is the person who is tough enough to handle any of life’s challenges. The Sapphire is the woman who is strong enough to financially support her family members while handling all of her own financial responsibility. She has a guarded “no-nonsense,” “I came in this world alone and I’m going to die alone,” “all men cheat,” “I don’t need a man for anything” persona because guess what? This is key to her very survival in the midst of a world that sharpens Black women’s soft edges by treating us as if we can handle anything, are less than too many things and believes that we are more durable than most. Like pack horses.


The thing about a pack horse, or any other animal that is used for carrying items, is that I’ve often wondered if they have moods. Like, after years of carrying things around, doesn’t it make sense for them to be pretty pissed off and tired most of the time? Pack horses don’t have a choice. They just have to lug more and more stuff around until eventually they are too old to do anything other than wait to die.

Black women are different. Despite living in a reality where there are often good reasons for us to don a “SuperNegress” cape, it is necessary for us to begin a journey of how to refill the same spiritual, emotional and mental reserves that we use to help sustain our villages of family and friends. As such, it is time for Black women to begin exploring how to get back what we give.

Photo: Shutterstock

Dr. Erica Wilkins is a licensed marriage and family therapist who works with individuals, couples and families in the greater Philadelphia metropolitan area. She has researched the residual effects of slavery and clinical implications for therapeutic practitioners. Dr. Wilkins has received numerous awards and is a published author who has presented locally, nationally, and internationally.

By Jaimee A. Swift

With our current state of affairs, the mental, emotional and even physical fatigue that is ignited by the onslaught of racism, racialized gender violence, sexism and other harrowing issues can be utterly overwhelming. Although it is important to engaged and conscious to the horrific events and news occurring in our world, it is equally important to maintain our peace, manage our self-care and to continuously manifest our Black Joy.

By Britta Floyd

I’m writing this post from Switzerland. Upon arrival, my hotel had champagne waiting for us in the lobby and my crew did a toast with me to celebrate such a surreal journey. I spent the day boating and wandering around Zurich, one of many European cities that I’ve had to the pleasure to experience. I sit in my room at the end of the day with tired feet and my things sprawled all over my ultra trendy room with blackout curtains; these are the things I’ve learned to appreciate. I sit there alone having just spent the day walking around with a complete stranger that I may never see again. I relive the view of the Alps from a Zurich river, window shopping on Bahnhofstrasse and searching for the perfect shot to post on my Instagram.

by Anna Gibson

When “B,” a Black girl from Detroit, MI was diagnosed with autism, she was very young. When her mother, Kristen, spoke with me, she told me about the first time her child got on a roller coaster, despite the environment that would normally over-stimulate her.

by Joy Notoma

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about Sandra Bland. Her face perpetually materializes behind my eyes when I start to doze off. I imagine that she is someone I used to know. An old friend. A cousin I haven’t spoken to in a long time. I want answers for her sweet smile. I want to hear her talk about her awakening black consciousness. I want to hear her say, “Sandy speaks,” as she offers strangers encouragement on her Facebook page. I want justice for the cruelty of her past depression being used to make suicide seem plausible. I want to join her mother when she says, “This is war,” who reminds me of Emmett Till’s mother using his murder as a call, not a moment of forgiveness.

I want answers.

Who is responsible for the death of Sandra Bland? What if Sandra Bland committed suicide? Does that mean the Waller County, Texas police department is not liable for her death? If she was murdered, will anyone be held accountable?

If Sandra Bland killed herself, she was undoubtedly depressed. In fact, she stated in a jail pre-screening interview, that she had been previously depressed. To some, this along with the fact that she was found hanging in her cell is all one needs as proof of suicide. No further questions necessary. But who is responsible? Why does ruling her death suicide seem to be reasonable cause for the Waller County police department to wash its hands of responsibility (not counting the responsibility it bears for neglecting to place her on suicide watch)?

Can we consider the extreme anxiety that being unjustly imprisoned must have caused a person who had been suicidal in the past? What of the additional anxiety and fear that she may have felt knowing that incidents of police brutality on black bodies frequently go unpunished? When the state trooper, Brian Encinia, put his hands on Sandra Bland to pull her out of the car, might she have thought of Freddie Gray, and feared that she may be yet another black body murdered at the hands of a power hungry cop?



What about Sandra Bland’s anger? Was her attitude out of line? Because of social media and camera phones, the American public, by and large, has only just begun to witness what black people have experienced for generations— physical, mental, and emotional terrorism regularly meted out by law enforcement officials on black bodies and black communities. The fact of this psychosomatic terror may be news to millions of white Americans, but it wasn’t news to Sandra Bland.

I sometimes think of what the late playwright, August Wilson, called “blood memory” when I think of intergenerational trauma. Intergenerational trauma is a fairly recent domain of research in the mental health field, but there is a substantial amount of evidence that an individual may carry trauma in the DNA that was experienced by preceding familial generations. This type of trauma also includes intercultural trauma and can be experienced by people of related cultures and communities.

Eureka! Finally there is a word, a proven, documented phenomenon that explains what black and brown people have known in their bones for centuries. There is a name for the anger that lurks around the corners of my eyes, daring to come forth, sometimes even when I am most joyous. There is a name for the shame that lingers too long when someone of my race that I don’t even know behaves in a manner that is true to a stereotype perpetuated in the media. There is a name for the uncanny thrill I get when I walk into a room and sense the hush of white people taking in my presence because they only relate to me as “other” and perceive me as a threat even without knowing me personally.

And these are only the little things.

There is a name for when we weep for nine murdered parishioners as if they were our own brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins; why the pain seems deeper than we can face without losing sanity. There is a name for the personal edge of the rage we feel when find there’s no justice for a boy who went out for Skittles and Amazon iced tea with his head covered by a black hoodie. There is a name for the anguish in our ribs that disturbs our sleep when we find that the marches and protests amounted to $5.5 million dollars but still no justice for a man selling loose cigarettes on the street. There is a name for why I can’t sleep at night thinking about a woman I have never met named Sandra Bland. The atrocities go on, but this pain that goes past my feet and into the ground and connects me with ancestors I don’t even have names for at least has a name.

So yes. Sandra Bland was angry. Maybe she wasn’t experiencing inter-generational trauma. Maybe she was just angry at having been pulled over for an infraction that many drivers commit multiple times a day—changing lanes without a signal. Maybe she was angry at being told to put out her cigarette or step out of her vehicle or being threatened with a taser. Regardless the cause, her anger was justifiable.

Having already experienced the brutality of the highway patrolman and having been in jail for three days, what might have gone through the mind of Sandra Bland who was already predisposed to depression? Could she have feared years in prison with unthinkable injustices heaped upon her daily like Kalief Browder? Could she have feared an unfair trial and skewed media coverage like the New Jersey 5? These are things we will never know.

Who is responsible for the death of Sandra Bland? If she indeed killed herself, it will be concluded that the answer to that question speaks for itself. But does it? If the investigation into her death uncovers foul play, can the family of Sandra Bland expect that justice will be served? Unfortunately, we all know how that story goes and the sad ending is not worth the energy to recount.

Sandra Bland’s name is another drop of our blood memory. But maybe this memory will not only call up terror, rage, and mental anguish. Maybe this memory will open the door to heal trauma, stare down mental illness, and retribute police brutality. Maybe this memory will mobilize us to confront forces that confine us to mental spaces that have damaged us longer than we consciously remember.

Photo: Facebook

Joy Notoma is a writer and performer living in NYC. Her current work includes interviewing people who have been affected by religious shunning and reviewing writings of incarcerated people. Check out her long form travel blog truthandtravel.wordpress.com.

by Anna Gibson 

In the wake of the Sandra Bland case, the black community was outraged and prepared to take action against a system that continues to subject us to violence. They drag our teenage girls to the ground at pool parties. They shoot us for carrying skittles, or even knocking on doors. Despite this, we continue to fight against a culture that seems to get off on dehumanizing us then ignoring the consequences, claiming that we live in a “post racial society.”

by Danielle Stevens for This Bridge Called Our Health

I think some of the discourse emerging from these ‪#‎IfIDieInPoliceCustody and ‪#‎WhatHappenedToSandraBland‬ conversations are dangerously limited. Folks are saying “Sandra Bland was mentally sound” and “Black women like her would never commit suicide”, etc. Not only are we upholding precarious and dehumanizing ‘strong black woman’ archetypes that neglect to hold Black women in the fullness and breadth that we embody, but our failure to operate within a mental health & disability justice framework by making the assertion that Sandra Bland was ‘mentallly sound’ in order to prove that she did not commit suicide is a dangerous narrative that both devalues black people who navigate mental health difficulties and trauma and also erases their/our narratives from the conversation.

by Michelle Charles, MSW

All too often, when we discuss in the motives of white male mass murderers in the media, we become fixated with the status of their mental health and whether or not mental illness may have played a role in their actions. In the case of atrocious shooting in Charleston, South Carolina at the historic flagship Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal church, we have somehow managed to fall victim to this useless conjecturing again, despite the Pro-Apartheid and neo-colonial signifying patches with which the shooter adorned his jacket. As this familiar hemming and hawing becomes United States narrative, I have become fiercely disinterested in the discussions about the mental health of the perpetrator in the context of these shootings, as they serve myriad destructive purposes. It privileges the perpetrators with the luxury of our understanding; it inaccurately paints mental illness as a precursor to destructive acts; and it neglects the mental health needs of those who were victimized or directly affected by the event.

by Kristina Brooke

I was diagnosed with clinical depression at 16 years old and generalized anxiety disorder at 17. My mother did not take either diagnosis seriously. She was a registered nurse, yet she often commented that my diagnosis stemmed from wanting attention. Like many Black parents, especially those who identify as Christian, it was easier to believe that I was being dramatic rather than suffering from a mental illness.

by Nneka M. Okona

Growing up, the world was a vast, looming place full of feelings and emotions. And there was most definitely something wrong with me, unequivocally, undoubtedly, because I felt them all—the highs, the lows, and the in-betweens—intensely. It was too much. And I must have been too much, too, since I experienced them all and no one else seemed to.

I remember identifying with these truths at a young age, maybe when I was four or five years old. Being me, as a little Black girl, meant intuitively detecting the moods of a person before they even spoke, and often taking on these feelings as my own. It meant feeling the energy of places, people, things, and being burdened with that energy if it was heavy. It meant feeling overwhelmed to an extreme degree by loud noises—yelling, sirens, car accidents, helicopters, TVs turned up too loud—and crouching whenever I encountered with these things. It meant being pummeled by the hurtful actions and behavior of others, feeling devastatingly wounded and  taking a long time to journey past those hurt feelings.

It also meant, as a little Black girl, learning very quickly that displaying too much emotion or being openly forlorn and vulnerable was frowned upon. Because if I showed any sign that I was hurt, I was indeed a weak person. And I had to be strong, at all costs.

My means of survival for most of my life meant suppressing the intensity of what I was feeling and how those emotions affected me, as I processed them and assigned meaning to them. It was easier to act stoic, cold, and unmoved—robotic even—rather than to admit at any moment, in every moment, I was chronically overwhelmed, overstimulated, and didn’t know how to function. How in any moment, in every moment, I wanted to cry because there was so much I felt and didn’t have a proper channel to release it all or a safe space to be understood.

This stifling of my emotions ultimately became destructive, of course. I channeled all I was feeling and experiencing into a profound degree of rage. A rage so icy and fierce it annihilated those who came into contact with it. I was emotionally reactive and out of control. It was almost like trying to keep a lid screwed tight on a Mason jar, but the contents kept overflowing.

I couldn’t contain myself.

But it was exhausting and embarrassing to deal with the aftermath each time. Eventually, I wanted something different. I wanted to be able to communicate my emotions and feelings in a healthy way before they spiraled out. I wanted to make sense of what I was feeling.



I began to do this through tending to my spiritual life and refining my spiritual practice. I started seeing a spiritual director in the fall of 2010. After a few visits and talks with my spiritual director, she, out of the blue, recommended a book to me. It was Elaine Aron’s book, The Highly Sensitive Person.

I devoured the first chapter while crying. Reading through the pages was like reading my life story, and I finally felt validated and sane. I was not some crazy person who was difficult to love or understand. I was not “too emotional” and “too sensitive” as I had heard from numerous people for as long as I could remember. There was a particular way I experienced the world, a way that was vastly different from how many others did. It didn’t make me abnormal, faulty, or “too much”. It just made me different: a woman who is empathic and highly sensitive.

I am an empathic and highly sensitive Black woman, and as such, there are some truths to be accepted. The mere fact of our existence, our humanity, precedes us, despite how our countenance may manifest. We are supposed to uphold our families and friends, without question. We are called upon to be a reservoir of strength for everyone we come into contact with.

This is unrealistic, limiting, and tiring.

We, as Black women, have to know it’s okay to feel, to go into the depths of our spirits and truly experience our emotions, especially for us who are empaths. We have to discard the notion that we are faulty if we cry, or if our feelings are hurt, or if we can’t keep it together. Life—and shit in general—is hard. This doesn’t make us weak. This doesn’t make us less than. It makes us human.

Knowing these things and adopting them as core beliefs while demystifying the harmful “strong Black woman” trope is pivotal during this time when we are all trying to find our place and space within the #BlackLivesMatter movement—especially for us empaths.

A radical degree of self-care is needed to cling to my self-preservation. Setting boundaries; teaching others how to treat me; taking the necessary time to myself to rejuvenate and recharge; listening and nourishing my spirit; following my bliss and meditating help to keep me centered and remain closest to my truest self.

Limiting the amount of violent and dramatic imaging I take in—whether through social media or television—is equally important. Constantly absorbing these things, as an empath, can be detrimental to my mental and emotional health.

Another key aspect of being an empath is being able to keenly identify when what I am feeling is my own feelings vs. the feelings of others I have inadvertently taken on. This takes mindfulness and meditation to better discern between the two. I also started to use shielding as a practice, per advice from my therapist who suggested doing so.

I’ve realized who I am—an empathic and highly sensitive Black woman—is beautiful simply because I’m being my authentic self. I am a gift to the world. By insisting to be who I am with no reservations I encourage others—those who are empaths and those who are not—to do the same.

It’s about me, but it’s also not about me. It’s the ripple effect of dropping that tiny pebble into a pond and watching the ripples stretch farther and farther away from me. And by doing so, hoping, trusting, inspiring, and counting on others to reach within themselves and do the same.

Photo: Shutterstock

Nneka M. Okona is a writer based in Washington, DC. Visit her blog, www.afrosypaella.com, her website, about.me/nnekaokona or follow her tweets, @NisforNneka.

by Anna Gibson


According to the National Alliance of Mental Illness it's estimated that 1 in 4 people in the United States struggle with mental illness. The "trifecta" of severe mental illnesses—bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, and major depression—are estimated to affect 13.6 million Americans.