Is it still taboo for black folks to seek out a psychiatrist when they’re really going through something terrible? What kind of issue warrants talking to God about it, versus talking to a complete stranger with a pen, a pad, and a really soft sofa chair instead? You might not want to shun the idea of seeking professional help too quick, especially since statistics dating back to 2009 say depression is affecting up to 20 million Americans a year, with only 12 percent of black women seeking out help…
I used to think like that back in the day, maybe because that was the vibe I always used to get from older, black adults. “You don’t need a psychiatrist, you need to pray.” That was the theory thrown around in the fiction books I read, and on the television shows I watched. For the most part, anybody caught dead laid out on a Freudian sofa usually lacked a whole lot of melanin if you know what I mean, and they were usually overly-emotional people in my book. And from the outside in, it all looked really unappealing. A random individual from off the street judging you, hearing all your deepest, darkest secrets or business, evaluating your “well-being” and getting paid a gross amount of money per hour to do so? No thanks. What a rip off, right?
Well, that’s what I thought until a sistah actually needed some mental healing.





