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Unless it has touched your life, depression can be a difficult disease to understand. I certainly would have never thought to consider myself a depressive. Clinical depression simply did not exist within the realm of my possibilities; or, for that matter, within the realm of possibilities for any of the black women in my world. The illusion
of strength has been and continues to be of major significance to
me as a black woman. The one myth that I have had to endure my entire
life is that of my supposed birthright to strength. Black women
are supposed to be strong -- caretakers, nurturers, healers of other
people - any of the twelve dozen variations of Mammy. It seemed
that suffering, for a black woman, was part of the package. Not so long ago, a friend invited me to a dinner party. I was standing with a small group of people deeply immersed in conversation. I was the only person of color in the group. My thoughts drifted from the conversation. To pull me back into the discussion, my friend asked about my writing. An older, heavily perfumed woman standing with us wanted to know what I was writing. "A book about black women and depression," my friend volunteered. "Black women and depression?" the woman threw out sarcastically. "Isn't that kinda redundant?" The people standing around us exchanged abrasive chuckles. "Don't get me wrong," the woman continued, taking a sip of her cocktail. There wasn't a hint of apology in her voice. "It's just that when black women start going on Prozac, you know the whole world is falling apart." I was instantly filled with outrage, anger, and hurt. "When black women start going on Prozac, their whole world has already fallen apart. They're just trying to piece it back together," I said. Months later, I am still unable to shake the echo of that woman's comments. I have replayed the scene a thousand times in my mind, each time giving what I felt was a more fitting, stinging reply. Ironically, I do understand the reasons for her comment. Stereotypes and clichés about mental illness are as pervasive as those about race. I have noticed that the mental illness that affects white men is often characterized, if not glamorized, as a sign of genius, a burden of cerebral superiority, artistic eccentricity - as if their depression is somehow heroic. White women who suffer from mental illness are depicted as idle, spoiled, or just plain hysterical. Black men are demonized and pathologized. Black women with psychological problems are certainly not seen as geniuses; we are generally not labeled "hysterical" or "eccentric" or even "pathological." When a black woman suffers from a mental disorder, the overwhelming opinion is that she is weak. And weakness in black women is intolerable. I have had conversations about my depression with black people - both men and women - that were similar to the one I had with the white woman at the dinner party. I've frequently been told things like: "Girl, you've been hanging out with too many white folk"; "What do you have to be depressed about? If our people could make it through slavery, we can make it through anything"; "Take your troubles to Jesus, not no damn psychiatrist." When there aren't dismissive questions, patronizing statements, or ludicrous suggestions, there is silence. As if there are no acceptable ways, no appropriate words to begin a dialogue about this illness. And, given the oppressive nature of the existing language surrounding depression, perhaps for black people there really aren't any. You've heard descriptions of depression before: A black hole; an enveloping darkness; a dismal existence through which no light shines; the black dog; darkness, and more darkness. But what does darkness mean to me, a woman who has spent her life surrounded by it? The darkness of my skin; the darkness of my friends and family. I have never been afraid of the dark. It poses no harm to me. What then is the color of my depression? Depression offers
layers, textures, noises. At times depression is as flimsy as a
feather, barely penetrating the surface of my life, hovering like
a slight halo of pessimism. Other times it comes on gradually like
a common cold or a storm, each day presenting new signals and symptoms
until finally, finally I am drowning in it. Most times, in its most
superficial and seductive sense, it is rich and enticing. A field
of velvet waiting to embrace me. It is loud and dizzying, inviting
the tenors and screeching sopranos of thoughts, unrelenting sadness,
and the sense of impending doom. Depression is all of these things
to me - but darkness, it is not. |
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