One of my colleagues recently had a nervous breakdown.

I found her in her classroom trying to pull herself together enough to get out of our school building so that she could go home. Once she had found some semblance of composure, I asked her what was going on and offered to walk with her to the parking lot.

As we walked, she told me how hard this year had been for her and how her students seemed to respect the classes of her colleagues more than her own. She also shared how angry she was. All of this I had known, but I was confused as to why she said she was angry. And then she said this,

“I’m angry because I’m the only one who has to take the time to deal with this. Everyone else is so strong and I’m so weak. No one else has to do this.”

The ‘this’ to which she was referring?
Her mental health.

In that moment, her mental health felt like an inconvenience. Something to put to the side so she could continue doing what she felt like was the most important thing: her job.

Everyone who was exhibiting “strength” in the eyes of this teacher was a black woman.
What I knew, but she did not is that all of these women were struggling with something incredibly difficult that very few people knew about, myself included.

You see, 2017 has been the hardest year of my life.

Both my maternal and paternal grandmother had an encounter with death within a week of each other. One had two strokes in less than two weeks and passed away. One was carried from her home in St.Martin while hurricane Irma ripped the roof off of her home and pummeled rest of the island. An island that is so deeply a part of my own identity.

I remember being in the hospital with maternal grandmother, Nana, while watching the news trying to get updates about my paternal grandmother, Ma, and the rest of my family, trapped in St. Martin without water, food, and power.

Upon returning from laying my Nana, to rest, I came home to news that my mom had lost her job and my husband and I would need to shoulder the financial responsibility of her household and ours. Even as I type this I struggle to use the word “burden” in fear that when others reads this, they’ll feel disappointed in me for referring to my mom’s financial situation as a burden.

I am writing about destroying the facade of strength black women feel forced to carry and I struggle to put down my own facade. 

My paid time off was depleted, my mom needed her bills paid, I was away from work for weeks either mentally, physically, or both, and I didn’t have time to deal with feelings. Shit had to get done.

I threw myself back into work feeling like that would distract me from all of these emotions I just didn’t have the time (or the desire)to face.

I chose not to talk about all of the ways I am hurting emotionally.

And then, as if my body was literally tired of holding up the weight of world, it stopped working.

At 28 my joints became so stiff I could not get out of bed some mornings.

After a number of doctors visits and blood work, nothing could be found wrong with me. My body still hurts…and still no one has an answer for me.

And here I was, standing in front of this young woman who was telling me how weak she was because she needed to go tend to herself. How weak she was because people like me didn’t need to take time to deal with stuff like mental health…and I could barely stand in front of her because my knees were screaming.

And I realized in that moment that this facade of strength I, and so many other black women created didn’t just hurt me, it made another woman feel less than.

I wasn’t stronger than she was.
I was just better about hiding my pain.

And I told her so.

So now I will tell you:
Sis, stop holding your breath and hiding your pain.

Giving yourself permission to feel, hurt, breathe, and heal will give those around you permission to do the same.

How many of us are holding onto our faux strength because we feel like no one else has to take the time to deal with ‘this’?
We are literally refusing to take care of ourselves for the appearance of strength. And the woman next to you is probably doing the same thing.

And sometimes we have the nerve to look at the woman next to us sideways when we find out she’s handling her stuff. Like the way we’re doing life is working out so well.

And I get it, it’s not for show or vanity, it’s for survival.

But the skills we’ve used to survive won’t serve us if we dare to thrive.

So after reminding this woman just how strong she was and how broken I currently am, I hugged her, put her in her car, and proceeded to walk back to my office to find a therapist, because dealing with ‘this’ is dealing with me and I am the most important thing I have.

Just in case no one has told you lately, you are the most important thing you have too, girl.

I found a website called Therapy for Black Girls which is a national directory of black women therapists because I would prefer there to be a lil’ melanin with my sessions.

It is okay to not be okay.
Opening up yourself to that realization will empower someone else to do the same.

Why do you think it’s difficult to tell people that we aren’t okay? Leave me a comment below.

 

There is magic in our musings,
Nicole