Mental-health

A concept: Lawrence was not a scrub who lived off his girlfriend and was too lazy to get a job. He is an intelligent, capable young man, who suffered from a prolonged episode of major depression.Two seasons and a saturation of think pieces later, my timelines never flooded with explorations of Issa Rae’s treatment of depression in Insecure. A treatment that so perfectly mimics the phenomenon of mental health dismissal, in the black community, that it almost feels like an experiment to see if depression would go overlooked and largely dismissed, even when the internet assembles for cultural critique. It happened so seamlessly that maybe Issa wrote the script with a hint her own cognitive dissonance – either that or she’s ingeniously pranking her audience.Tall, dark, handsome man in his late twenties barely changes his clothes and is stagnant for years. He wakes up and gets as far as the couch, to dream of what could be, if he could manage to get what’s inside outside. Shape-up: neglected. Beard: overgrown. This is the same character who is talented enough to walk into a tech company, after years of unemployment, and easily secure the job.In the Season 2 Insecure finale, I heard Lawrence’s character admit to suffering from a mental health issue, but it must have been at the frequency of a dog whistle. It didn’t reach us. I know because I logged into social media and only saw #teamIssa. “Sometimes, I set these expectations for myself and I just shut down if they don't go how I,” he begins to tell Issa, in their Dunes kitchen conversation but doesn't finish. This description is the way that depression frequently manifests in the life of the millennial, the post-graduate, the young adult, the overachiever, who has vivid ideas of what should and could be, but of what cannot currently be realized. Lost in the waning praise for past accomplishments, comparing self to former self, competing with highlight reels, the reality is that many of us are young, black, gifted and depressed. Lawrence offers Issa an apology for not living up to her expectations of him. His apology is noteworthy because, for black men and women, depression is often not viewed as an illness, but is viewed an offense on relationships, family and your own potential. Rather than encouraging loved ones to feel safe enough to pursue the journey to emotional wellness, we tend to judge them based on an imaginary and warped definition of what it means to be strong. “I’m sorry,” he says, “for not being who you expected me to be, who I expected me to be.”Lawrence’s experience with depression and the reception of his experience by the show’s characters and, largely, its audience is an illustration of the lack of space for mental and emotional health concerns in the black community. We ignore them or attribute them to some failure of person, so as not to acknowledge the reality that, sometimes, we do not simply need more money, more faith, more prayer, more opportunity – we need serious help.  Issa's character expresses that she simply did not know how to provide the support that Lawrence needed, so she didn't do it. That is not good enough. We must make room, in black excellence, for not just immeasurable stamina and lists of accomplishments, but also for the impact that striving for such can have on those who experience emotional fragility.Depression is not a synonym for weakness and a term for folding under the pressure to succeed. It is an overwhelming immobility, a darkness amidst the most shining lights, a heaviness, restraining and holding hostage healthy thought patterns and the ability to simply do. Mental and emotional illness are not "first world problems that n*ggas make up" for sympathy.On September 25th, 2017, Chance the Rapper, arguably the most accomplished young musician in the music industry, simultaneously debuted new music and revealed that he is mentally depleted by the rise to his own career’s altitude. On The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, worn out by the perpetual balance of career, family, imperfection, self-doubt and societal disappointment, a 24-year-old confessed. And, as the media reposted the video and reacted to the beauty of the audio, again, a black man’s admission to suffering from the symptoms of depression did not receive due attention. I waited.  In the song’s title, “First World Problems,” Chance nods toward the notion of an issue that is perceived as being of little importance because it only exists as a result of a preexisting state of privilege. Employing this title to capture the widespread dismissal of emotional exhaustion, especially as it relates to those who are considered successful, Chance walks us through what it feels like to be both full and empty, both suffering and affluent. Directly against verses filled with anecdotes that concretely outline inner struggle, he collocates the hook, “First world problems that niggas make up.” The song is an attempt to dismantle misconceptions about mental health, by way of his own experience that we so well admire and respect. If Chance desires to stay in bed all day, he’s reminiscent of Lawrence. Chance (young, black, talented, trailblazing) is hurting. What now? Is he, too, making it up?He raps, “I really need a break, could really use a nap.... You go so far you hit a point where you can’t Uber back. The other day, I told a hummingbird he's too relaxed.”The typical hummingbird flaps its wings at 80 beats per second. The small birds sustain a heart rate of 1,200 beats per minute, with a body weight composed of 25-30% pec muscle. The result of their strength and endurance, to humans, is only the production of a distinctive sound.Chance, 24 years old, breaking records and providing us with uniquely inspiring, seemingly effortless music, revealed in a single line, to which standard of work he holds himself. Aspiring to grind harder than a hummingbird, exhaustion is inevitable and failure to live up to a self-imposed standard is imminent because, unlike the hummingbird, he is human.You don’t have to be Grammy award-winning artist to need a break, a nap, a pause button, without any conceivable way of making that happen. You could be a 25-year-old with a rising (though mismatched) career, bills to pay and a family that you love, with one foot in the therapist’s office and the other on the gas. This, however, is not about me and is not entirely about Chance. It is about the inability to carry your blessings, when your heart becomes too heavy or the inability to count them because your mind races with all that you haven’t done, can’t change, but are unable to let go. You “hear the seams snappin',” which is terrifying because “you’re the team captain” and suddenly, you are no longer certain that you’re in control. He continues, “First world problems that niggas ‘make up.’ Have a dream and then never wake up.” When speaking of black dreams, it is a miss not to state that Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” speech outlined the most important dream in Black American history. Now, in 2017, as our teenaged boys are being shot dead by authority figures, for doing nothing other than walking while brown, we are still being judged by the color of our skin rather than the content of our character. We are also still being told that systematic, intentional injustice and inequity are problems that “niggas make up.” For clinging to his dream and working to make it a reality, Dr. King, eventually, never woke up.Reading the meaning of a dream as an ideal condition that is fleshed out in the mind, Chance’s lyric becomes not only a hint to Dr. King’s life being taken for his relentless pursuit of racial equality in America. It also becomes a critique of the type of success that has come to characterize the “American dream.” Once your dreams become a reality – is it possible to stay grounded in what’s real? Or, even more confusing, how do you identify what the real is?Throughout his verses, Chance criticizes the way that he sometimes sits on his couch, sips his tea and sends his tweets to address issues that are important to him. He implies that he can see glimpses of disconnection between himself and the communities of which he used to be a part. It's harder, now, for him to #staywoke. When this is true, he is situating himself in direct contrast with the way in which Dr. King lived for his dream. Chance admits to displaying a form of activism, but proving false to its essence. He may think that he's awake, but he can’t verify it, as he has inevitably become so far removed from all his spinning totems or connections to the real world. The act of living has become Inception. In this limbo of “living the dream,” you may never wake up – partly because you don’t want to, partly because you’re not entirely sure how.To be aware of such duality, Chance gives a window into the battles that he fights within himself. “When so much turns to too much, have a dream and then never wake up.”My mom tells me that, as a baby, even if I had just had a nap, I would immediately fall asleep during arguments or conflicts in our home. “It’s almost like that was your way of getting away from it all,” she says.Escapism is one of the most common coping mechanisms for pain, be it emotional or physical. After a long day in the office, a long day of circumstances or events that are too taxing and complex for me to parse, I come home and I go straight to sleep. It is hard to accept the morning.While we sleep, our minds function at a different level of consciousness. We are, for a limited time, free -- free to experience versions of reality that have not yet manifested or that may not ever or that may have passed. Dreaming, in this sense, becomes a travel in time, from now to simply away from the present. It is the freedom to think anything at all or, equally valuable, the freedom to be unconscious of thought.The limit to this escape is enforced only when we must wake up. Chance alludes to, but does not explicitly explain, a state in which so much relief is desired, the escape has no limit or there is no awakening. Similarly, the Bible repeatedly likens death to a deep sleep.“Depress,” a verb, literally means to push or pull something into a lower state. Depression, then, can be imagined as the push or pull of life, on a being, that exceeds the extent of that being’s foreseeable power. The state can become so low that the ability to indefinitely escape or to permanently eliminate the stressor can seem to be more of an option than an enemy. “The day is on its way; it couldn’t wait no more. Here it comes. Ready or not.”Chance’s music often refers to God as his source of hope and savior. The day to which Chance is referring must, in the context of sleep and dreams, serve a dual meaning. The “day” is typically used as a reference to God’s day or the day when simultaneous justice and deliverance will be exacted on those who are living. “The day,” as the Bible describes will come “as a thief in the night,” while your guard is down, while you are least expected and in your most vulnerable state – while you are asleep.If Chance, in the previous line, uses sleep as a mode of transportation into a state of peace, then the day, as in the daytime, becomes the oppressor that perpetually forces you to face your reality. During the work week, my alarm is set for 6:05 a.m (6:06, 6:07, 6:10 and 6:15). And, the new day, which is universally considered a blessing, becomes a malediction, when life has transitioned from so much to too much. The day represents responsibility, relationships, duties and thoughts that all demand a measure of already sparse emotional stability.Chance sings of the coming day, not just as a praise, in anticipation of deliverance on God’s day. He also sings of the daytime, as a warning or a battle cry, preparing himself for the fight that he’ll face, when the sun rises and his escape comes to an end.The other day, at lunch with someone I love, I apologized for not always being able to return phone calls. I tried to explain that after sometimes unwelcome days, full of fulfilling demands and performing a version of myself that I don’t have the energy to sustain, I just fall asleep. She responded, “You need to stop saying you’re depressed. Why does everyone want to say that they’re...

Singer-songwriter Michelle Williams stopped by The Talk this week where she opened up and admitted that she was struggling with depression throughout her teenage years and throughout her years as a member of R&B group, Destiny's Child.“I want to normalize this mental health discussion," is what Michelle Williams told the audience and other co-hosts of The Talk.Williams admits she did not know what she was feeling until she was well into her adult years. It even got to a point where suicide was a considerable option for the vocalist.“I was to that place where it got so dark and heavy because sometimes you feel like ‘I’m the provider, I take care of people, I’m not supposed to be feeling this way—what do I do?’ I wanted out.”Now an overcomer and awareness advocate, Williams is using her story as a testimony, to share so that we may “normalize this mental health discussion.” She has partnered with artists to create more awareness around mental wellness and being comfortable discussing the taboos of mental health. Michelle is just one of many artists who have spoken out about mental health. Other well-known fighters include Sinead O'Connor and rap favorite Kid Cudi.Mental health should not be brushed under a rug and ignored. Thanks to individuals like Michelle Williams who use their platform to create unity and awareness where fear often...

Every once in awhile I have conversations with myself in my bathroom mirror. These conversations aren't very meaningful normally. They usually involve me practicing my Oscar acceptance speech, or working my way through the eventual Oprah interview special I'm sure to have. But earlier this year, I chopped it up with myself in a way that I really hadn't before. Like any other day I came into my apartment and dropped my things on the floor in pure disgust. Like any other day, I pulled out my headphones in agony as an R&B gem from my childhood played on. And like any other day, I walked into my bathroom and looked at my oily ass face in the mirror and asked: "How you living Mr. Kinsey?"But unlike any other day, I actually lost my s**t. The world cracked over my head like a fresh ass Trader Joe's egg and rained over me unlike anything I had ever felt before. I cried. Like real tears. It honestly felt like anything bad that had ever happened to me manifested itself into those tears. They rained down my face until it was constricted with the tightness of the stress I had been feeling over the past few weeks.In an effort to calm myself, I changed my clothes and hopped in my car with a Whole Foods waypoint in mind. Pineapple always soothes my soul, and organic overpriced pineapples were just what I needed at the moment. En route, I plugged my iPhone into the AUX chord and played Blonde by Frank Ocean. "Nikes" blasted over my speakers as I drove past intertwining telephone wires diving in and out of each other between telephone poles. I zoomed past parents running behind their kids as they biked freely down the sidewalk completely unaware that me, myself, and all my feelings were hauling ass to get comfort food. I parked my car in the Whole Foods Parking lot. I moved to grab my phone to pause my Spotify account. As I pushed my thumb to the lip of my phone, Frank Ocean crooned these haunting words over a chopped and screwed beat:                                                                         Throw up for A$AP. RIP Pimp C. RIP Trayvon. That n*gga looked just like me.Ocean’s lyric hit me like a brick. A big ass, Georgia clay brick. I burst, yet again, into an uncontrollable sob. One, lone soldier tear, followed by a legion of loyal behemoth tears rained down my face. “What the f**k is wrong with you?” rang a dark voice in my head. “These three black men had their lives taken from them prematurely, and your ass is crying in this bougie ass grocery store parking lot?”“You ain’t s**t.” the voice said coldly.I had heard this voice before. It followed me around on a daily basis. It whispered obscenities in my ear as I tried my hardest to go to sleep at night. It lurked around corners of my office job as I worked up the courage to have simple interactions with my coworkers. It convinced me otherwise when I wondered if I, as a black son, was making his black parents proud. The voice had haunted me for years, and what’s worse is that it sounded exactly like mine. This chilling voice of mine had manifested itself over my 24 years of living. I never really considered myself a confident child growing up, but not because I wasn’t good at things. I did well in school, I played instruments, I read complicated novels. I was the black kid who “spoke so well”. These bursts of outside validation weren’t enough to drown out the chilling voice in my head, which grew increasingly louder and more powerful as I got older. It was almost as if it fed off the increasingly stressful situations that come with age. Everyday experiences that come with teenage years were wars I had to wage with myself simply because this voice that had made a nest in my brain and wouldn’t shut the hell up.Fast forward to my post-college years and the voice had matured just as I had. It gained a bit more bass, learned some new vocabulary words. But one thing that hadn’t changed was its constant want to tear me down from any sort of positive thought. As I got older, I had accepted the voice as “normal”. “Everyone has depressing thoughts, right?” I’d say to comfort myself. “I’m not going through anything that anyone else isn’t going through.” And of course, my personal favorite passage aggressive affirmation: “Get the f**k over it.”But as I sat in my black Toyota Scion, struggling to breathe with waterfalls streaking down my face, I knew I couldn’t get over it. I was tired of trying to fight this voice on my own. I had tried to ignore it for so long, that it only grew bigger and smarter than me. I had to do something. This wasn’t normal. So in that moment, after years of denying it and saying I didn’t need it, I decided I needed therapy. Looking back, the weight of that moment was way heavier than I could have ever imagined. As a black man, I stayed away from therapy simply because I thought I needed to be strong enough to brave this storm. I had always lived with this ‘never let ‘em see you sweat’ mentality that kept me from being vulnerable even with the people I loved. I carried all of these burdens over the years because I didn’t want people to think I was weak, not realizing that these burdens were actually just wearing me out. I couldn’t fight this monster that lived in my brain and sounded like me alone because I wasn’t supposed to. By not trying to seek help, I was letting this voice break me down and keep me from being the best version of myself that I could be.Therapy in itself has been a challenge for me, one that I never thought I’d have to face. I’ve had to deconstruct walls and barriers that have been built over the past 24 years by a monster that knew me better than I knew myself. But the great thing is that I’m starting to see cracks in the foundation of why I’ve been so terrible to myself. I’ve been able to dismantle the bricks that were laid by conglomerate of negative thoughts and figured out a way to combat them going forward. Frank Ocean was the fulcrum in the battle for my mental health. Listening to this young black man be so free about his thoughts and the things that he struggled with every day made me realize that I could do that too. It made me realize that I had to do it because the voice in my head that sounded like me was only going to get bigger and stronger, so I had to do the same. And as this cold voice still rings on in my head, a new, more powerful voice gets this small burst of power every day. It makes constant strides toward greatness and looks at the world with more clarity than its darker counterpart ever could.And the greatest thing about this new voice? It sounds even more like my...

To say that the characters of HBO’s Insecure are messy would be the understatement of the year.In its penultimate episode Hella Disrespectful, we finally saw the confrontation that we’ve been waiting for between Lawrence and Issa. Long story short, the two did each other pretty dirty and aimed some pretty petty insults towards each other. Between Lawrence’s problematic slut shaming of his ex to Issa’s attack on Lawrence’s mental health, it's safe to say that these two definitely got beef. But the true output from the episode's epic fight is the culmination of a theme that’s been explored throughout the series' second season: Hurt people hurt people. Hurt has been something that has acted as the driving force for these character's decisions ever since that fateful night at the end of season one. It drove Lawrence into Tasha’s bedroom, it made Issa try to rekindle her situation-ship with Daniel, and it was the coal that stoked the fire of the events of this past episode. But hurt is also the excuse these characters have used to justify the things they’ve done. It's the thing they’ve used to absolve themselves of any wrongdoing, not only towards each other but towards the other people they’ve roped into their mess along the way. The end of Hella Disrespectful got me thinking about the ways that we as viewers do this on the daily basis. While it's easy for me to chastise these characters for the dumb shit that they do every Sunday, I also look back on my own moments of heartbreak and can recall moments where I’ve hurt other people simply because someone completely unrelated hurt me. I cleared my conscience by simply saying I did what I did because I was sad, not because I’m a bad person. And while I may not be a bad person, it makes me ask “why didn’t I check myself?”.Being able to check yourself in times of wrongdoing is one of the keys to adulthood, I think. As I myself approach my mid-twenties, there have been moments where I’ve had to take a step back and ask myself if I was doing the right thing based on the standards I’ve set for myself. Whether its been with interactions in my personal life or professional, taking these moments to decide if I’m truly doing the right thing or just being an asshole have improved not only my relationships with other people but my relationship with myself as well. Learning to check yourself means acknowledging that you aren’t always going to make the right decisions in life, but that you’re going to commit to making things right when you can. As we approach the end of this season of Insecure, I can only hope that for the sake of these characters growth that they’ll learn to look back on the thing that they’ve done and be able to admit when they could have made the choice to be better people.Because like my momma always says “Check yourself before you wreck yourself, ya...

Last weekend, all anyone could talk about was the Mayweather/McGregor fight. I was asked about whether I would watch and even invited to a fight party, which I declined. When asked why, I just let them know that I didn’t support Mayweather because of his documented domestic abuse. They shrugged it off and went on about their business and I went about mine and that was that. This represents a deeper, darker pattern in our community. We can know about abuse, have proof of abuse, but for some reason, decide to look the other way.Black men and women that are victims of domestic abuse, be it by a partner, parent or other family member, are oftentimes shamed into silence. This shame comes from a variety of people and places like family ("we don’t talk to nobody about family business"), church ("pray about it") friends or just the community ("you call the police then you are just putting another black man in the system"). We celebrate abusers and blame the victims, making it almost impossible for them to speak out. When a victim is brave enough, we lash out and beat them almost into oblivion, we make them relive their abuse all over again. Most importantly, we refuse to talk about it, we refuse to acknowledge the problem. I guess we feel if we look away, the problem will disappear. Or if it’s not us, then it’s not a problem. But so many of us suffer in silence and have nowhere to turn.Domestic abuse comes in different forms. Sexual and physical are the ones most talked about when there are conversations. There is also emotional, mental and financial abuse. Unfortunately, because of our inability to acknowledge abuse in any form, most of us have no idea what emotional, mental or financial abuse looks like or the red flags to look for. Emotional and mental abuse tend to have more long term consequences than just physical abuse. The scars under the surface take a lot longer to heal than the physical scars. Emotional and mental abuse is so rampant in the black community. You know how the saying goes, “hurt people hurt people.” Because we have a hard time accepting that therapy is a useful tool and the fear of being labeled crazy or weak, you have a bunch of hurt, broken people doing the same things that hurt and broke them to other people. We glorify this abuse and classify it as love. Your partner psycho dials you multiple times a day, constantly pops up on you without warning, they won’t let you go anywhere without them, you have to check in multiple times a day with them, yet social media thinks you are #RelationshipGoals. No, what you are is someone who being manipulated and controlled. This is mental abuse.  If your partner constantly downs your thoughts and ideas, manipulates every argument and fight to make themselves the victim and you the villain, no matter how wrong they were, they never acknowledge when they are wrong or made a mistake but will look you over with a fine tooth comb and critique every action, choice and decision you make down to the polish on your toes just to let you know you were wrong, your partner constantly lets you know they made an exception in their standards to be with you, your partner constantly lashes out at you for seemingly no reason. This is emotional abuse. This type of abuse will surround you in a cloud of self-doubt. It will make you second, third and fourth guess yourself and every decision you make until you all together stop trying. After a while, you will become just a shell of yourself and the reflection of your abuser. Your partner convinces you to quit your job or take a lower paying job to “stay home with the kids” or whatever reason then puts you on an allowance, they refuse to let you see the financials or deal with the household money in any way, they constantly remind you that since they are the breadwinner, what they say goes, no dime is spent without their approval, they always have a reason for why you can’t work or why you can’t work full time. This is financial abuse. They have put you in a situation where you are financially dependent on them and it makes it impossible for you to leave.Usually, mental, emotional and financial abuse is already taking place in a relationship before the physical abuse starts. Some victims have unknowingly been abused so long before the physical even starts that it’s already too late. They don’t know how to escape. Fear and uncertainty keeps them there and shame keeps them silent. So they stay. What else is there to do? They have children and raise them in that environment, it’s their new norm. Their kids grow up and start their own families and continue the cycle, all while living with the suffocating shame and guilt over what is happening in their homes.We must end this cycle. It’s ok to talk about it. We have to stop blaming the victims. We have to make them feel that it’s ok to come forward and speak their truths. Or else, we need to acknowledge our roles every time we see a story of a victim that didn’t make...

I don’t look like what I’ve been through.This old adage is thrown around often as an expression of gratitude for overcoming life’s toughest trials and tribulations, and managing to look fabulous at the same damn time. The cliché, though, doesn’t account for the internal toll “going through it” can take, or what effects consistent subjection to stressful experiences can have on mental health and well-being.I can attest to this because nothing in my life has come easy. My childhood is laced with traumatic memories and experiences that have followed me into adulthood. One of the most daunting is generational poverty, a circumstance I, despite my greatest efforts, can’t seem to escape. The chronic stress associated with long-term poverty has meant I’ve had to claw my way through mounting adversity, and commit myself to the proverbial “twice as good” mindset for what typically amounts to minimal reward. More often than not, I make it through without adequate support because I’ve already proven time and time again that I have an insurmountable ability to make lemon meringue pie out of lemons—and I don’t need a sous-chef to help me do it.But what many people don’t realize is that these constant struggles and never-ending battles have left me exhausted. I feel the fight in me depleting as my emotions range from loneliness, anger, frustration, guilt, fear and unsupportiveness, to just plain old tired—mentally, emotionally and physically. And as I feel these sentiments and come to terms with the notion that I, too, have a breaking point, I want to be able to experience and honor all of them without repetitions of how resilient and strong I am in the midst. These reminders from family and friends I know are well-meaning and meant to emphasize my proven survivability, but they aren’t helpful at all. In fact, responding to my pain with an acknowledgment of my resilience is actually quite harmful.Resilience is portrayed as a positive and desirable character trait because it is indicative of strength, commitment and perseverance through the most dire of circumstances. Surviving such conditions seemingly unscathed equates to resilience; therefore, those who do not survive, be it because of suicide or chronic mental health concerns, can be labeled as non-resilient. But such a simplification serves as both a minimization and normalization of traumatic, chronically stressful experiences. Further, it perpetuates the vicious and problematic cycle, for black women especially, that glorifies unrealistic, super-human capacity to withstand any, and all obstacles set before us. We should not be celebrating it.We should, however, ask ourselves at what costs resilience comes? For far too many, the payments we make to maintain our strength and a grasp on resilience come in the form of various mental and physical health ailments.So, we must be mindful of and think more critically about the effects of reveling in resilience so that we may gain deeper understanding of how damaging it can actually be. When my emotional responses to my struggles are policed through reinforcement of my resilience, the message I receive is that it is unacceptable for me to be weak. I cannot feel tired, drained or like I want to give up. And it’s not OK. The burden that is required to carry on such unrealistic expectations of strength isn’t one I want to be subjected to any longer. Reminders of my strength or of how much I’ve already survived and accomplished despite my circumstances don’t, in any way, glorify the struggle. But they do set in motion an agonizing cycle of delegitimizing painful experiences for the sake of maintaining a discourse around resilience that preserves society’s status quo. In doing so, it makes me wonder if, perhaps, #BlackGirlMagic has been taken too literally. I can’t wave a wand and make all my problems go away. I’m human. I will cry. I will ache. I will feel. And, in due time, I will rise beyond it. But we don’t need to rush the...

There are things you don’t talk about in African homes. You don’t talk about the time Father wet himself then slid in the puddle of his making. You don’t talk about the possibility that we’ve been miseducated in matters ranging from religion to matrimony. You most certainly don’t talk about mental illness; why give demons a foothold over our lives by uttering such things?So you trudge on with the gnawing thoughts in your head, too afraid or ashamed to be the one that concedes to such “nonsense.” Tortured, you sit and listen to your elders' rubbish; the cries of the depressed girl on TV. The tears of a spoiled American! “What does she have to cry about? Doesn’t she have food to eat? Clothes to wear?”Depression and anxiety are monsters of another land. Admitting to them is an affront to the parents who risked life and limb to bring you to this land of abundance. So you sit and stare. You smile weakly at the family gatherings and yearn for the solace of your room as Awilo Longomba blares from the speakers. There must be others right? There have got to be others like you. Others that while not in immediate physical danger (the only peril that’s real apparently), sigh heavily and coax their countenance into some semblance of cheer. There must be, but who will speak up first to say, “Here I am”?At some point, the consuming hollowness must become greater than the fear of scorn. The louder that screaming mind goes unheard, the more treacherous the waters become. You must find the others, I assure you they are out there. Find them and speak without a care. Should the state of your mind be ascribed to demons, then so be it. For even exorcism can only work once we acknowledge that there are sinister specters about.Africans in the diaspora, Africans everywhere, must accept that the brain is an organ just like the liver and lungs. All organs get compromised be it by microorganisms or microaggressions. We are not weak when we acknowledge that something is wrong. That may very well be the height of wisdom. For only after calling out the dragon from its murky lair, can we band together to slay...

It’s hard to believe it is 2017 and the news media reporting “unarmed Black _______ shot by _________ Department police officer who mistook ____________ for a gun. Fired ____________ shots and killed suspect" has become a common headline. It truly is Charlotte Atbosi’s Mad Libs: Black Death EditionI am an advocate for equality of all, but my main focus is on black social and economic equality. I am black before anything else, I will always love and fight for my Blackness first. On days like today, when I wake up to another hashtag, another life lost, another person taken from their family too soon, it is hard for my anxiety to not take away all my fight and make me want to disappear from this world.The last couple weeks have been a reminder that nothing, nowhere, and no one can guaranty black people’s safety in America. There is no stance that my Blackness can take that will be seen as non-threatening. Whether we march, kneel, sit down, stand up, stay silent, shout, put our hands up, or fists up --it's seen as threatening.  As someone who’s mental health varies, it can be hard to remain optimistic and positive when social media is littered with videos of a person being gunned down by someone who will never have to take accountability for their murder.I’ve lived almost 26 years in a society that told me in order to not be seen as a “nigger”, I would need to shape, mold, and bend myself to meet Eurocentric standards of success and beauty; get an education, speak properly, get a corporate job, straighten your hair, don't have an opinion, etc. And for a long time, this propaganda worked. I busted my ass to separate myself from any shred of Blackness.It first started in my younger years when I felt denied my Blackness by other Black kids who made fun of my “white” accent. On the other side, I had my white schoolmates “complimenting” me on how I wasn’t like “those other black people.” So young me, where do I go, towards the “compliments”, of course. If I knew then what I know now, I would have smacked all those kids for being ignorant assholes but you live and you learn.In school, there wasn't a substantial mention of Black people as anything more than chattel when slavery and the Civil War section came around in history or during Black History month when we learned about the same three people; George Washington Carver the Peanut Wizard, Martin Luther King, Jr. the Peaceful Martyr, and Eli Whitney with his dusty ass cotton gin (who come to find out is actually white). These were my only known contributions from my race from kindergarten to high school. Three people compared to the explorer Christopher Columbus, the humanitarian Abraham Lincoln, George 'Ain't Neva Lied' Washington, and countless other heroic, breathtaking, fascinating white men. They were thoroughly bragged and boasted about in my history lessons. It was all true, right? A school wouldn't lie to a young developing child to push a hidden agenda, right? *rolls eyes back to 1864*On top of that, I had news media constantly talking about Black on Black crime and the War on Drugs with our men, women, and babies used as the poster children of America's detriment. Riots in Los Angeles, crack babies in incubators, and bodies in the streets after a gang shootout. Fear of Black people pumped out daily as stories of rampant drug use and violence were the main topics. That was news in the mid-90's. Then on the other side of the media, in entertainment, black people on television were painted as one-dimensional, comical token sidekicks to multifaceted, white main characters, or criminals.I was big into TV and school growing up, and I wanted to know everything while soaking up all information like a sponge. I was surrounded by all these images in entertainment, the news, and school, yet none of them represented me or my family so I thought we were different. We were "good black people". We didn't do drugs or know gang members and we had huge, strong personalities, unlikely to be side kick to anyone. My parents were well-educated, my sister was well-educated, and I was next in line, but I didn't see my family or myself anywhere except at home. I'll admit, in my younger years, I harbored fear of Black people based on what I'd seen, and I wanted to not be seen or associated with Blackness as I knew it. Especially after I was told I wasn't "black enough" by black people. I was convinced that, although I am dark skinned, it meant nothing more than a skin tone; a deep tan.This kind of mental segregation went on from about 6th grade until my first semester of university. Throughout those years, I was the epitome of perceived whiteness. Back then emo/punk was the "look", so I was colored fringe bang, limp straight black hair, band tees, grungy jeans, band lyrics everywhere, great diction, typing “ily” in my MySpace bulletins, not eating so I could fit perfectly into my size 3 skinnies. Giiiirl, I was whiter than the white kids. Don't get me wrong, these were my genuine interests as well, yet I was made to feel like when I expressed my interests I was overstepping or "not allowed" to like those things by both Black and white classmates.In social groups, I noticed certain girls, either white or a white passing person of color, would try to make me seem as though I was problematic in anything that I did. I couldn’t sneeze without a pale face tripping out like I had Ebola.A natural extrovert, I needed somewhere to express myself, have a social space, and sense of belonging, so I lived my life online through MySpace, then in later years by venting on Tumblr. The internet was the only place I didn’t feel invisible or unwanted.  I had a couple of friends in real life who were cool, but I couldn’t connect after having felt so out of place and unwanted for all that time. I was also deeply depressed, but I didn’t know how to bring that subject up again because I was already coming home to all the “hey, white girl” jokes from my family. At that time depression was a “white” thing and I didn’t want the extra critique. To be honest, until recently, I was completely shut down and shut off emotionally to everyone.It wasn’t until university that I started meeting more black people who didn’t fit or believe in the monolithic Blackness. They shared similar stories and experiences with me, and I finally felt like I had my space in the social world. Like I wasn’t this disgrace to my Blackness for not falling into the stereotype. I found comfort in my Blackness. Yes, I have alternative interests but those will never take away from my Blackness.When I speak to Blackness now, it’s more than skin; its culture, its experience, and that song and dance only we know how to move to.That is when I learned about overt and covert racism. Growing up, no one was overtly yelling racial slurs at me, but it didn’t mean that they weren’t covertly dismissing my existence based on societal implemented ideas of me and my race due to media, education, and other social norms. Regardless of what I did, I was an outlier, an anomaly from this violence, savage race and at any moment I would fall into that violent, savage behavior. Hence, the “constantly problematic Pat”.I recently discovered, a lot of my white peers' parents had never even interacted with a Black person until their adulthood. That's people in their 40's-60's who never knew only of Black people but never knew a Black person. That is crazy to even fathom. All they have heard were these horrific tales that they then pass on to their children and the children apply it how their little minds interpret it. There's the media and school reinforcing these skewed ideas perpetuating the miseducation.On my journey to consciousness, I unlearned my own problematic and divisive behaviors that I displayed by separating myself as some “superior” Black because I talked more “white” and colorism (light skin vs dark skin). I also learned how beautiful Black unity is. I went to a Predominantly White Institution (PWI) but the Black presence and involvement on campus and in organizations was unmatched. We were the minority, but we made sure we were ever present and visible in everything. We held influential positions in every organization and even started our own several of our own.My experience with feeling out of place ended early on in my life because I made amazing friends and now understand those experiences and feelings, but it doesn’t mean I no longer experience those micro aggressions in my adult life. After I left the magical land of college, I faced the same struggles from middle and high school in the workplace. I have to be careful how I appear so not to be misconstrued. Always tethering the fine line.As of this year, I stopped giving a f**k. I wear head wraps to work, braids, twists, faux locs, Ankara styles, I don’t care. I am Black and proud as hell. This my culture. Call HR if you want to, I’ll sue you. I'll have EEOC in the biiih.I was lucky. I was saved from my Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome but not every Black person gains the knowledge of our history. I know there were over hundreds of scientists and inventors that contributed to American history but may never receive recognition in a history textbook. There are Black people who believe that our ancestors never contributed more than violence and destruction to America's history. There are still kids, teens, and adults like me out there who feel isolated and problematic for doing what society said to appeal to the Status Quo or for doing what they enjoy because it's not "Black" enough.That’s what being Black in America is; fighting, working, breaking your back, giving every drop of blood, sweat, and tears only to get denied at the finish line because you are still Black. That is why you'll see celebrities like Lil Kim altering their appearance to a more European look through skin bleaching and cosmetic surgery. She has burst under the pressure of living in a society that does not accept or appreciate her achievements and accomplishments because of her skin color and culture. The level of self hatred that grows from constant rejection can lead a person to the extreme to be accepted.No matter how hard we work, we can never erase our melanin. We don’t want to. We want to change the narrative that America has forced upon our race and culture. We want the right to live in safety and equality.Before you rush to silence and ridicule Black people for our activism. Take time to understand the constant mind games we are subject to in order to survive in this country. Oscar Wilde said, "Be yourself, everyone else is taken," but for Black people it's not that easy. Being our true selves is seen as insolence and threatening because of the centuries of propaganda circulated against...

This week, every blog, Instagram account and sensational magazine dived into Robert Kardashian and Blac Chyna's most recent split. How could you not? Nudes, text messages and an overflow of vindictive behavior were displayed for the world to see. After being blocked from Instagram, the Arthur George sock designer (Robert) moved onto Twitter, where he continued to air out the deceptions of his former lover, and mother of his first born child, Dream Kardashian.The blogs had a field day.Celebrities weighed in. Videos from Snoop Dogg, comments from T.I., and let's not forget viral memes of Rob's "Flat Tummy Tea" album cover, were splattered across social media. All in good fun, right? Depends on how you look at it.Rob is the only son to one of pop culture's most famous families. Often referred to as the black sheep, he was the rebellious Kardashian who did not conform to the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. For years he battled with depression, which resulted in his disinterest in filming the family's hit show, Keeping Up With The Kardashians. After a few publicized breakups with stars like Adrienne Bailon and Rita Ora, Rob kept his dating life private—until Blac Chyna came along. She showed great interest in his health by supporting his weight loss endeavors. Cooking healthy meals and working out together, the pair quickly bonded and began their rocky romance. The Kardashian clan witnessed their once private brother become open to filming and sharing his relationship with Chyna. His sisters were hesitant, but Rob stood by his woman's side, praising her for all of the positive changes she helped him make. Their tumultuous relationship was documented on their reality TV series, Rob & Chyna, and was also the highlight of some episodes in the last two seasons of Keeping Up With The Kardashians.Rob has a history of showing no restraint on social media. He has publicly shamed his sister Kim (comparing her to the narcissist from the psychological thriller, Gone Girl ) and has even posted his youngest sister Kylie's cell phone number on Twitter. When someone who suffers from depression goes through a traumatic experience, anything, big or small, can push them over the edge. As Rob took to Instagram to expose his ex-fiancé, I didn't laugh, I felt sympathy.By no means does Rob’s depression excuse his behavior. Revenge porn is never tolerable in any shape or form, and is punishable in the state of California. But consider this: someone who suffers from depression often acts on impulse, and disregards consequences. Just a few days ago, YouTube Vlogger, Stevie Ryan, committed suicide, less than one week after her grandfather’s passing. The star was vocal about her depression, and was unable to deal with trauma of losing a loved one. Both Kanye West and Lil Wayne have rapped about thoughts of suicide and suicide attempts. Through their music they’ve shown that depression is both common and something that one can overcome.While the world is laughing and judging the demise of Robert Kardashian and Blac Chyna's relationship, I wonder if anyone is looking beyond the surface of this week's outburst. At some point, mental health and depression needs to be addressed, and not mocked....

Summer should be a time for cookouts, catching up with friends and dancing to the oldies. However, in recent memory, the summer has been troubling for the marginalized person. The marginalized person is generally a being who has been placed on the edge of society. Laws are made to physically, geographically, emotionally and financially hold these people back. Marginalized people are deemed less than a white land owning male and are meant to never hold complete freedom. It is sadly inevitable that another police involve shooting or Rape allegation will break the airways in the coming months. When you combine these acts of injustice with a faulty government, one's hopes for a greater tomorrow can quickly turn into learned hopelessness. Such tragedies typically cause a hyper sense of angst and sadness. PR^2 is a model based of the theory of self-care. We are powered by a binary society that demands us to put others first before our own emotional wellness. PR^2 helps one Process said event, Release anxieties and Recharge the soul.                                                                     Pre-Setting1. Silence your phone.2. Take a deep breath (Inhale through your nose, fill the stomach, exhale through your mouth and slightly collapse the shoulders). Repeat this step three times. Touch to Touch1. Hold both hands in front of you with your palms facing each other but not touching.2. Take a regular breath while simultaneously pressing both thumbs together.3. Continue with each fingertip until your hands make the shape of a spade.4. Reverse the process by releasing your pinky finger first, then ring...and so on.5. Repeat the activity 2 to 3 times or as needed.Process - The EventProcessing is your time, it can be done alone or with others. When processing a traumatic event with others make sure you are around people who can empathize with your emotions. This is not a time where you should feel defensive or combative.1) Golden Processing Rule: If it takes longer than five minutes to explain your emotions to a person that doesn't understand, you should not process with them.2) You should always end processing with a small sense of increased stability.3) Do not be afraid to cry, laugh or yell.4) There is no time limit; you can take ten minutes or three hours.Release-Social MediaClear your social media of people who do not understand or care to understand your emotions, (Remember ignorance is their problem, not yours).1) If the videos are causing anxiety go to settings and disable auto-play.2) Be careful reposting the actual incident. This can create and turn into a trigger which, could on set an anxiety attack. If you have seen it, there's a good chance everyone else has too.3) Follow stock pages that provided daily encouragement.4) Find your tribe of like-minded individuals who carry the same sentiment.5) Use social media to keep yourself informed of current events, however, do not barter your emotional homeostasis.  Recharge- The BodyPicture the body as 100%. When a traumatic event happens the body may decrease to 90 80, 70% etc. So, essentially you need to get that body back to 100%! Find out what makes you happy and separate it into these categories (Alone, With Friends, With Family)1) Alone- Coloring, Reading, Writing, Excising and Painting.2) Friends- Bowling, Mini Golf, Card Games, and Dancing.3) Family - Embarrassing story time, Game night, watch your favorite childhood movie and add your own commentary or Act out your favorite TV family.Go to sleep understanding that you may not know what will happen the next day but, your life is worth waking up and finding...