Still Black

Black women don't suffer from mental illness. Black people don't go to therapy.

Those two sentences have help kill thousands of sistas. We internalize all that is going on in our worlds. We destroy ourselves from the inside. Stress, overeating, hypertension... the list is long.

I remember the first time I really knew something was wrong with me. I sat on the edge of my bed in a country that was not my own. The pain was almost unbearable. I rocked and cried unable to understand why I didn't want to get out of bed. Why I hated the thought of tomorrow. I didn't want to kill myself, but the thought of death was seen as a release for me. I didn't reach out for help. I am a strong black woman, not some frail white chick needing assistance. I was told my hubster to get help. I was trying to swallow all my pain but it wouldn't go down gently.

I realized I was not indestructable. The color of my skin and my culture didn't not stop me from feeling the pain of my dark days and sleepless nights.

therapy

I couldn't save myself I did need help and today I can see ain't no shame in that.

I'm still black. I'm still black.