There are some aspects of suffering that are rather difficult to just "pray away." Yet, it is the response I am normally met with from several members of my family, specifically the women. I understand the sentiment; I can comprehend the feeling of agency that comes from putting troubles into a higher power’s hands, and of sharing the burden with someone else. However, this proves to be almost impossible on days when I am searching for something that is, in my eyes, more concrete. There are too many feelings, emotions and histories that I am still struggling to grasp with as I grow older and more challenges are being thrown my way. Moments of hopelessness, anger and defeat, along with my attempts at healing these wounds, have forced me to take note of my inclinations, natural or otherwise, toward a form of self-care that is almost like a false advertisement. It is, to me, performative self-care. 

In late December, I found myself putting self-doubt, fear and isolation into physical manifestation, as I recounted a negative sexual experience that had taken place a few weeks prior. I was raped. In an effort to take this emotional burden off my shoulders, in a search for rationale in something that I could not even grasp as being real, I went to social media. I shared my hurt. Texts poured in, as did phone calls and messages on other social media platforms. I cannot deny hearing words of love, support and belief soothed some of the aches. Yet, in this effort to distance myself from it, my experience became even more real.

It was parasitic. Even more than before, I was losing sleep. My nightmares were becoming more vivid, feeling each burning touch more powerfully with each minute I was trapped in the dark corners of my headspace. I was losing my drive. Holding conversations, as well as my other tendencies of extraversion, was very difficult.  I became incapable of crying; I thought it to be no use. I made pledges to myself, telling myself to allow for time to heal and to feel the weight of the matter but to never let it break me. It is a mantra that I had adopted for a range of situations, a chant I had learned through seeing the actions of my own mother. I learned to not falter in public, to heal in private, to carry on. I can say with a great deal of confidence that many black women know this manifesto, even better than they know the palms of their own hands.

With every smile and laugh that fell past my lips, I questioned myself. Is this genuine? I wondered. And I questioned what other people thought of me. I took every hug to be a moment of pity – inarguably, some were, but others were of support. I could not understand this. I say this, not as a point of negative reflection on myself, but as a point of honesty.

“Are you okay?” was met with “I will be.” “Do you need something?” was met with “No, but thanks.” I was trying to find some personal control in a situation that I did not know how to handle. Emotional independence is what I know best. It is what I have always admired about myself, but in these moments, I would argue it contributed to a mental pitfall. I wanted to show off that I would not let what happened to me, break me down. That my pride would remain rampant in my blood, that my head would stay high, that strength would still stir in my belly. I was so adamant about this because it is what I wanted. However, when in suffering, I have found that you cannot always have what you want. And what you want may not necessarily be what you need.

Even before this instance, I can pinpoint moments in which my self-care has been performative, especially dangerous in its comparative nature. Since high school, I have struggled with high-functioning anxiety. I had a white friend who was struggling with depression, and her struggle was much more visible than mine. For me, societal constraints and more taught me that this was strange – how could she let others know that she was not okay? To the me of that time, this was a weakness. My unhealthy view of my own struggle undoubtedly was one of the contributing factors in the deterioration of our friendship. For me, my toxic coping mechanism, my performance, was the right way to deal with mental health issues. When I would have the feeling of a deep, uncontrolled hopelessness, I threw myself into work. I acquired “leadership positions” that forced me to focus on everything and everyone but myself, and I slept very little. I built myself up so high that I could not be torn down or broken – externally. I was the only one who could see the falsehoods at my core, and the pain at my foundation.

In working to erase my self-stigmatizations about what it means to have mental health issues as a black woman, I have found understanding in gray. There is no comfort in not having answers as to why I cannot feel the way I want to feel when I want to feel it. But I am taking baby steps toward finding solace, for I owe it to myself to center my own wellness and happiness. Healing is hard and endless, but performative self-care can be even more draining. And so I am trying, to be honest with myself about my emotions and what I need, in various ways. I make playlists, I create visuals with a lot of my favorite colors. I write about what hurts me most, and I write about the people I love. I cry on my bathroom floor, stop speaking for days, and occasionally isolate myself. Some days are better than others. But even in the moments that my knees ache from the imprints of the bathroom tiles, even in the moments that I am finding it hard to breathe, I know I am real. These moments, these feelings, as horrible and disgusting and frightening as they can be, are real. I am real, and here, and each breath I take is an act of defiance.