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.

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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 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 Candace Simpson

“The tragic loneliness Black women consistently face as we stand before judgmental others — sometimes white but sometimes Black; sometimes male, but sometimes female — demands that we have some wisdom, experience, and some passion with which to combat this abuse.” —Karla Holloway

by Marena Bridges

I didn’t know what to expect when I went into my first appointment with my therapist so long ago. As we walked to her office, she explained that she specialized in working with trauma survivors. Trauma survivors? Sure, I’d had my share of awful experiences just like anyone else, but I’d never thought of myself as a survivor. But, as I continued attending therapy sessions, I came to realize that I had a rather narrow view of exactly what it means to experience and survive trauma.

by Anna Gibson

Jessica is 29 years old and currently lives in Detroit, Michigan. She currently takes care of two beautiful and energetic sons, Quadir and Jibril. Jessica is also a survivor of intimate partner violence, where threats, coercion, and physical violence were the norm.

by Anna Gibson

by Krista White

I sat there, sobbing on the counter, eating an entire bag of shredded cheese and thought, “Maybe I need to change something in my life.” So naturally I continued sobbing and finished the bag of cheese. Everyone’s depression is different. Some people turn to drugs. Some people have a gratuitous sex with strangers. And others retreat into themselves, only coming out of their messy dorm room to devour ungodly amounts of cheese. I almost wish I were the “make reckless choices” brand of depressive. That might have been kind of fun. But no, when I was deeply depressed for about half of my college career, I mostly cried, ate, slept, and watched LOST.

I’ve always been a sprinter. As a child, my long legs would dash across an open field or down the asphalt of my neighborhood street determined to be the first to slap the hand of the person acting as our finish line. In high school, during my brief stint at track and field, my coach encouraged me to be a long distance runner, but I insisted on the thrill of the 100-yd dash. I didn’t see the benefit in the endurance and strength required for 800 meters.

When I became intentional about beginning my healing journey, I took a similar approach--attempting to sprint to the finish line called “healed.” As if I had disappeared into a lab and placed my psyche under the microscope, I dove into very deep waters, unaware of my capacity and how it was mismatched with my ferocious quest to heal. With the help of therapy and deep self-reflective work through writing, I unearthed long repressed memories that floored me.
I was ill prepared for the unexpected grief and momentary rage that had me wondering if I would ever smile again. Determined to heal myself and recover what was taken from me as a survivor of child abuse, I went full throttle into my process, trying to mine my past for my lost parts, relentless to recover what had been taken from me.

I was finally doing the work and needed to make up for lost time. My wounds took center stage and after a while of processing may past in that way, I became overwhelmed. I thought that by looking at every memory, every hurt, reading every book, I wouldn’t hurt so much and somehow fix it all--I was wrong.

Whether I went inside myself with a bulldozer or an ice pick, what I uncovered surprised, terrified, depressed, angered, and at times even disgusted me. Eventually those heavy and dark emotions gave way to something sweet, powerful, resilient, and fiercely loving. I learned that I could face my pain.

I learned that those emotions and memories would not kill me. I learned that I had what it took to make it through and heal. Healing from trauma is not about fixing one’s self. It is about tending to our wounds, then giving them time to breathe.

Like a child being shooed away from picking a healing scab, sometimes we have to just let it be. Healing is about recognizing our wholeness in the face of deep pain, knowing that scars mean that I’ve been wounded, but they also mean that I’ve healed.

Now, when I’m doing those “deep dives,” I know I must prepare myself and make sure I am taking care of my body in addition to my mind and spirit-- something I’ve learned many trauma survivors struggle with. I have also learned to recognize when I’ve been triggered and am responding to life from a space where I feel small, reactionary, uneasy and tense in my body. This work is a continuous journey, but the most rewarding and fruitful work I’ve ever done.

The following tools are ones I’ve learned and practiced both in my healing work and in my life. They support my “training” in living my life as a whole human being who is worthy of love.

Take care of your self

I got sick a few times early on in this process. My sleep was often interrupted by flashbacks. I ate a lot of unhealthy comfort foods and ignored the signs from my body indicating its need for more care. Eating nutritious foods, getting a good night’s sleep and exercising are practices that maintain a certain level of wellness in the body and during times of deep emotional processing, an act of self-love.

Paying close attention to how your body feels will help you to know if you are doing too much and where you may need to make adjustments regarding how you’re caring for it.

Set boundaries
For many years I struggled to set boundaries with others. I either said “yes” when I wanted to say “no” or I avoided the issue completely. I wasn’t strong enough to say what I really wanted or needed or I wasn’t clear. Learning to be in touch with what I feel and what I need has been a huge and important step for me in setting boundaries. Honoring myself enough to let others know what my needs are and deciding what I will do to care for myself when others don’t honor them has been vital to me feeling safe in my body and to my healing.

Find a good therapist
There is no way I could have done this level of work without the support of my therapist. I am grateful that she is compassionate, wise and that my wholeness is important to her. If you are processing a painful past, hopefully you are already doing this work with a therapist. If you are not, I highly suggest finding someone who will support you in your healing journey. You don’t have to do this alone and you shouldn’t. You deserve the support.

Have someone you can call anytime of the night or day
There were many nights when I thought the tears wouldn’t come to an end and those who were willing to answer my phone calls at any time of day or night where anchors in my storm. Having a loving witness to our pain is sometimes the very thing we need to help us transition from a rough patch. At times this can be a therapist, but if you’re not able to access them or if you’re not seeing one, a good and trustworthy friend is the next best option.

Do something that brings you joy
One thing that trauma does is limits our capacity to experience a range of emotions fully, especially good ones like joy and peace. I am personally very familiar with the emotions of fear and anger.

I am sometimes hyper-vigilant, preparing myself for the next attack or on the lookout for the next bad thing to happen. Now, with increased awareness, I deliberately seek out experiences that facilitate true joy and happiness. Something as simple as going for a walk in nature and allowing myself to take in its beauty and wonder allows me to tap into the ever-giving stream of goodness inside and all around me.
Celebrate yourself
In the heavy lifting that is the healing journey, I took care of myself. I asked for help and slowly but surely, the persistent sadness began to lift. I was able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Joy came more easily. Anger, an emotion that used to dominate and floor me, now informs me. I have the tools I need when I fall back into sadness or self-sabotage, which I sometimes do.

Healing work is some of the hardest work you’ll ever do. Touching those tender spaces inside you is an act of bravery and radical and fierce self-love. Wherever you are on your healing journey, you deserve to celebrate yourself. You deserve respect. You deserve to be supported and loved.

Please remember that during this times, when a new you is immerging and you are setting boundaries, honoring yourself in ways you never have, you may have to release relationships and people who will not celebrate this new person you are becoming. Bless them and send them on their way.

The Buddha stated, “You yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection.” In your commitment to healing, you show yourself the greatest demonstration of your love and care for yourself.

A client once asked me if I had ever been in therapy before. "Never trust a therapist who hasn't" I responded.

Therapists, like everyone else, struggle with anxiety, depression, parenting, challenging work environments, and relationship issues. We're not immune to the stress of daily life or the challenges from our own childhood. For me the past few weeks have been challenging as I'm in the middle of change and I find myself anxious and emotionally exhausted.