With the recent death of Soul Train creator and entertainment pioneer, Don Cornelius, I’ve seen a lot of conversations around the “taboo” of suicide. When I first heard that Don died of a self-inflicted gunshot to the head, I made sure to steer clear of the conversation. More often that not, in the wake of a tragedy, social media becomes dangerous ground full of preconceived notions, half-cocked opinions treated as facts, and an utter lack of empathy. On most days, I can navigate the mine fields without incident, but as the survivor of a suicide attempt, I knew that the wrong words about Mr. Cornelius’ death would push my buttons.
The Mental Rope-A-Dope
“If you had a friend who spoke to you in the same way you sometimes speak to yourself, how long would you allow them to be your friend?”
When this question popped up on my Twitter timeline two days ago, my eyes didn’t make it to the question mark before they watered up.
Depression is often described as rage, turned inward. Which means there is a part of my brain that exists solely to attack me. 24/7. Every minute of everyday is a Battle Royale in my mind, with the positive and negative thoughts fighting for supremacy.
Mental Monday – The Reason Why I Sing
In honor of May being Mental Health Month, I hereby declare this and every Monday this month “Mental Monday” here on The Skinny Black Girl. The discussion of mental illness, especially as it relates to twentysomethings and Black Americans, is one that is very close to my heart, so it’s my pleasure to contribute to the conversation when I can. That said, let’s kick off this month’s first edition of Mental Monday.
Hello, my name is Robin, and I live with major depressive disorder. Continue Reading »
Managing Demons
[To keep my pen moving, I’ll be using the 30 Days of Blogging as writing prompts. Today’s prompt: “Something you hate about yourself.” ]
I hate that I’m mentally ill.
I became aware of my illness before I knew how to label it. I was eight years old, on summer vacation from school. One afternoon, as I sat alone in the bedroom that my mother and I shared, I burst into tears. The tears weren’t provoked by any circumstances. I hadn’t hurt myself. I wasn’t watching a sad movie or television show. Out of nowhere, I was overcome by a wave of melancholy that forced my small body into the fetal position and leaked down my face. In the middle of my fit, I realized that I didn’t know why I was crying, which scared me and thus made me cry more hysterically. This was not normal. I was crazy.
