Mind Tricks: Why Mental Illness is No Laughing Matter

I’ve been struggling to write this post for a month. Why? Well, because it’s personal; but that’s not the whole truth because I have shared many personal things on this blog. But it’s not my personal, it’s someone else’s story. Well, that’s not the whole truth either because it’s my story, too. What could be so hard to write about, especially for me when I pride myself on my ability to put.things.into.words? What could be so difficult for me to write about that I have been writing this post in my head for the past month? Even as I try to type, I feel anxious and even a little scared. Truly. Because sometimes, things can’t be written as truth. There is always something else just up under the surface, existing between the lines. In these spaces, we can see the truth more clearly, but to paraphrase a well known movie, “can we handle the truth?” Well, this time, it’s hard, but here goes…

For the longest time, I have known that there were several members of my family who existed in their own spaces. I don’t mean in that ethereal, existentialist space where one questions the state of being. I don’t mean a hippy, dippy, trippy space that’s all dandelions and sunflowers. I’m talking about alternate spaces rooted in pain and identity and chaos and…The truth is, is that several members of my family suffer from mental illness. I need to say that again. Several members of my family suffer from mental illness. That’s something to say, especially among Black folks. I don’t know why, but there is such a stigma surrounding mental illness. I mean, in every community there is some needless embarrassment around the topic, but for Black folks? Well, just chalk it up as another thing that keeps us down. Seriously. And the sad fact is that we don’t usually even validate mental illness as an illness. We consider it a weakness, some sort of deficit. We make excuses for the erratic behavior and may even joke about it: “Girl, you know such and such is a little off. He shouldn’t have (insert some unconnected activity).” Or “She’s just extra. She’s always trying to get some attention.” I know it because I’ve said those things, too. *hangs head* But now I know better and I’m telling you…it’s real.

I had to get this post out this month because May is Mental Health Awareness Month. And I have some personal reasons that this month is significant especially when it comes to issues of mental illness. Two years ago this month, my son’s high school music teacher committed suicide. (He had her for six years; as a music major, he saw her daily). Sadly, she had tried to kill herself several times throughout her life and had been unsuccessful (or perhaps, she had been successful at living?). Well, she had been falling apart just prior to that and many folks were trying to save her life. But she couldn’t be saved because she thought her salvation was on the other side. Their attempts to make her see her worth were pointless because for her, in her mind, she was unloveable, of little value. And so, armed with misinformation about her personhood, she hanged herself in a hotel room in the middle of the week (on my birthday, no less).

She didn’t see any way out and so she took her own life, but it really wasn’t hers to take. She belonged to the world and was so significant, but…she took her own life and we were left to pick up the pieces of her fractured existence. We asked why and why and why some more, but there were/are no answers. Looking at her life and her photo board at her wake, we could see where she started coming undone. Unstrung and unstable, she leaped from this world into the next, praying it would be easier (I think). But we know that she wasn’t in her clear mind. She was in the throes of her illness and no one could decode her need and speak to her in a way that would save her life. And so she leaped from this world into the next and my son, along with countless others grieved this brilliant, vivacious, creative, talented, gifted teacher. As my son delivered a heartfelt message at a school memorial service, I knew that mental illness was real.

And then this year, right before May came in good, one of my closest relatives tried to take their (it’s not proper grammar, but I’m trying to maintain some anonymity) own life. A cocktail of liquor and pills combined with fast moving traffic was almost lethal enough to end my relative’s life. *insert tears* This relative is like my own child and my heart broke in countless places at the thought of losing one of my heart’s children. Someone connected to me by blood. I knew that this person wrestled with demons new and old. In fact, this person had been diagnosed with a mental illness almost a decade prior and had been existing without any treatment.

But you know what? Self-medication is a monster. The many ways that this relative coped put their life at risk tenfold. But you know what? It didn’t even matter because they thought they were winning. Thought they had triumphed over the demons and silenced the voices in their head. But, guess what? That demon lay dormant and when it raged, bayyyyybeeee, it was a monster. It attached itself twentyfold and wreaked havoc on this relative’s mind, body and spirit. It spoke in foreign tongues, whispering in shadows and teasing with it’s just out of bounds behavior. And then it pounced…that demon rode my relative bareback into a kaleidoscope of confusion, fear and surrender. And then came the liquor, and the pills and the fast moving cars for my relative to play chicken with…But that day, the demon didn’t win…and so as this relative works to rebuild their life with medication and counseling, we will see if the demon can be held at bay.

So this is what propelled me to share this story with you. The thought of burying my relative sent me into a spiral of anger, fear, grief, sorrow and helplessness. What to do? What to do? And so I sit here and I write. I write in hope that we can each work towards saving someone’s life. When someone you love is going through a hard time and they just can’t shake their sadness, they might need intervention because they might have a mental illness. Not every time, but sometimes. And we can't take the risk of hoping they'll be fine, of wishing they'll get over it. We simply can't. And so we ask questions and offer comfort. We should encourage counseling and acceptance. We need to create a safe space where people can work out their own stuff without judgement. No harm, only healing. I don’t have any answers, but what I do know is that we need to make sure that we are open to whatever ails folks. We never know when or if we will be the ones in need. Peace.

Donny Hathaway "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother" (I chose this Donny Hathaway track because he had a well documented history of mental illness)