The first time I contemplated suicide, I was six years old.
At the time, someone my family trusted was sexually abusing me; pain, grief, and melancholy were so much a part of my life that I didn’t realize how heartbreaking it all was until I was in my early twenties. I was so used to not being fully connected to my personhood and body that it took me all those years to connect the dots.
I started seeking help when I was 19 and started seeing a counselor when I was 21; though it was an uphill battle, I was making progress with past traumas and began to get better. Then, in 2012, depression hit me on a scale I had never imagined possible and I felt like I was walking through an infinite pitch black room where I couldn’t tell whether the light switch was 5 feet or 50,000 kilometers away. I didn’t understand the full extent of it until the counselor I was seeing pointed it out to me with the utmost care and urgency: she rightfully told me to see a psychiatrist for evaluation because I might need medication. I, in turn, balked at the suggestion. I’d convinced myself that I’d failed as a Christian, a black woman, and Nigerian. I couldn’t be the strong person I claimed to be if I was clinically depressed.
I felt like I was walking through an infinite pitch black room where couldn’t tell whether the light switch was 5 feet or 50,000 kilometers away .
That is not what happened the second time around. 2015 could be best described as a slow burn of loss and heartbreaking disappointments. I went through a breakup that left me blindsided. I mourned the end of a few friendships, the most devastating being the one with my best friend of five years. By 2016, the slow burn had become a wildfire: four people I knew passed away back to back, with each death leaving an indelible impression. I was still dealing with what felt like the never-ending fallout of my breakup and was having a hard time at a job I needed, but didn’t want. By the end of the year, I left my job and with that came a feeling of crippling anxiety. Added on top of it all was the socio-political climate in America and I came away feeling like there was no safe place for me as a black, immigrant woman.
But I did have a bit of hope: I’d been through deep waters before. All I had to do was seek out the same healthy coping habits that had helped me get through the previous rough patch and I’d start to be fine.
I cannot begin to tell you how wrong I was.
My first order of business was to seek a counselor; though they gave some tips that helped, it seemed difficult for them to understand my cultural experiences and differences. It seemed even more challenging for them to hear the fears brought on by the socio-political climate. I never felt comfortable relaying my concerns with the organization they were affiliated with, because it was a Christian organization and the counselor was white. Though I’d had an overall wonderful experience with the organization itself, I’d had enough experiences within Christian faith communities in America to fear the likelihood that this counselor’s whiteness and position would be protected and that I’d be painted as the hysterical, difficult black client. So I lied and told the counselor I could no longer afford the sessions. Shortly thereafter, I tried seeing another therapist who was lovely, but who I soon was unable to afford. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I’d had enough experiences within Christian faith communities in America to fear the likelihood that this counselor’s whiteness and position would be protected and that I’d be painted as the hysterical, difficult black client.
I couldn’t leave the apartment for days on end. A really good day consisted of one meal, a shower, and brushing my teeth. In turn, my physical health also began to suffer. If 2012 was like walking through an infinite pitch-black room, 2015 through 2018 felt like being an astronaut stranded in space. My shuttle was behind me, earth was before me, and I was sailing in the dark abyss, meteoroids whizzing past me as I screamed my lungs out, oxygen depleted.
The worst part was that it didn’t matter how much I screamed – there was no sound. It felt like my pain could not be woven into the fabric of everyone else’s lives. Not even my own.
I became so desperate to get better that I became obsessed with finding out what I was doing wrong. I got into the habit of ripping myself apart to see what lies I was believing, what ways I was failing and enabling my depression, what I needed to move forward so I could heal. I believe so much of what I did has ties to the ways in which black women and immigrants are put in positions where we constantly have to prove our worth or usefulness in order to be valued. I also believe it has ties to a gospel I read that taught how God looks at appearances first and not hearts. If I could show just how diligent I was, how hardworking, how resilient, how trustworthy, how good, then maybe I’d be able to get the help I needed. Unsurprisingly, none of that worked. All it did was dig me further into my depression and made my battle with suicidal thoughts that much worse. It’s taken this moment for me to fully realize why that was a complete and utter waste of my time.
I believe so much of what I did has ties to the ways in which black women and immigrants are put in positions where we constantly have to prove our worth or usefulness in order to be valued.
I’m not the same person I was all those years ago and I’m learning that that’s okay. I’m learning new ways to show up for myself as myself even in this vacuum. After a long hunt, it’s looking like I’ve found a counselor that’s a good fit. I’m also starting to find a rhythm with very close friends and figured out ways to be there for each other. I was walking up Third Avenue in Manhattan a few weeks ago, when I realized that I’d walked a route I hadn’t been able to walk since things got really bad for me in 2016. It felt a lot like holding a large bubble—I was excited but terrified of bursting it. I never want to go back to those last few years. But as I walked, I realized I have survived so much grief and loss, I fought and survived even my very mind wanting to kill me.
Although I am not the same person I was when I used to walk that route on Third, I discovered that the woman I am is no less valuable or somehow less worthy of love. If anything, in all her struggling, fighting and humanity, she has gained my undying awe and respect.
I walked the remainder of the route much taller than I’d started.