All Articles Tagged "depression"
When things get dark and someone is filled with despair, suicide may be the only solution one sees at the time. Unfortunately that was once the case for these Hollywood stars, but thankfully these celebs who survived suicide attempts are still here and sharing their talents with the world.
Singer Fantasia Barrino shot to stardom and fame after winning the third cycle of “American Idol.” But the road got very rocky for the “When I See U” singer after the public found out about her very married boyfriend. Barrino met Antwaun Cook in 2009 and a year later his wife was suing hew husband’s boo for alienation of affection, even though the R&B singer insisted the relationship began after their separation. That same month Barrino tried to kill herself by taking aspirin and sleeping pills. She was hospitalized and the following year she gave birth to Cook’s son.
Depression is so much more than feeling a little blue. But because no one likes to talk about the big “D,” a lot of people don’t even realize that their struggle is more than real.
You Will Feel Judged
Mostly because some people still treat depression like it’s not a real disease. Judging someone with depression is no different than judging someone with diabetes. Don’t let their lack of education shame you into not getting help. Not everyone is misinformed.
It all dawned on me this past semester, standing in front of the projection screen, teaching my students the difference between adjectives and adverbs. I was speaking a little louder than normal, flailing my arms in illustration, trying to drive my points home. Even the most introverted of my students were engaged in that moment, shouting answers back at me, laughing, taking notes.
I thought, I never would have thought I’d be doing this.
Not because I wasn’t qualified to teach (although for a long period of time I believed as much), but because from about the sixth grade until the age of 23, I battled with social anxiety.
The first time I remember feeling so anxious was during lunch time in the sixth grade. I stood at the entrance to the cafeteria, watching other students milling around, and I couldn’t move. My pulse was out of control to the point that I could feel my heart beating in my neck. My palms were sweaty and I felt as if I were going to cry. I pivoted on the balls of my feet and ate lunch in the bathroom. From that moment, for the next thirteen years or so, I would struggle with crippling, daily anxiety. Some days to the point of physical illness. To eat breakfast was often a personal accomplishment.
I feared that my family – a very no-nonsense one – would think I was faking or crazy. I had no recourse, and I have noticed this is the case for many black women. Family is often the cause of lingering, debilitating anxiety. We feel we can’t verbalize the rollercoaster of our mental and physical state without being criticized or mocked. We’re expected to suck it up and move on. Discussing feelings is considered weakness. We are shamed into silence for something that is not our fault. I was tired of carrying around shame, so here is what I did:
1. I used college to break out of my comfort zone. I was used to being too afraid to do anything, including engaging with others. I knew that if this was going to change anywhere, college was the place. I joined clubs and organizations with missions that interested me and I pushed myself to engage. This was EXTREMELY difficult! Some days I would rush back to my dorm room on the verge of tears just from being in the presence of so many people. Difficult, though it was, it was also a huge stepping stone.
2. I picked up my journal. I knew I was not comfortable enough to share my deepest insecurities, thoughts and feelings with anyone too soon. I also knew that if I kept everything bottled up I would implode. I decided to journal every thought. Every prayer, dream, goal, inhibition, fear, and misunderstanding went into my journal. I unearthed a world of unknown hurts from being bullied in the sixth grade and other childhood traumas that had taken a huge psychological toll. Each entry felt like a huge sigh of relief and a slow but sure release of pressure.
3. I sought out confidants. Trust was extremely difficult for me. I knew I needed individuals who cared for and would cover me during this process of healing and growing. So I watched for the people in my life who displayed exemplary character. Who chose not to gossip? Who maintained integrity? Who was compassionate? Once trustworthy people were revealed to me I could feel my mood change day-to-day, month-to-month. I wasn’t ill when I awoke in the mornings. Social situations were less daunting.
4. I affirmed myself. As a Christian and a person who believes that life and death is in the power of the tongue, I started checking myself. Every time I began to speak or think negatively about myself I would replace that thought with something positive – often a quote, affirmation or bible verse. I realized that I couldn’t use others as my crutch. I had to make sure I was telling myself good things…even in the moments when I didn’t believe them.
It’s been five years since I began this self-work and I’m nothing but grateful, empowered and humbled by the experience. It’s not always easy – even today – but it has been worth every tear, journal entry, Mary Jane-esque affirmation and prayer. The past doesn’t hold me and the future looks promising.
The entertainment business can be a flaky one. We witness all of the time how a person can be on top of the world one day and down and out the next. Sadly, producer and singer T-Pain says that it was this kind of valley experience that taught him who his true friends are. During a recent chat with MTV News, the musician, whose birth name is Faheem Najm, revealed that when his career took a bit of a nose dive, he sank into a two-year depression.
“I slept, drank, was depressed for no reason. I don’t know why. It was just weird,” he explained. “[It lasted] for about two years. It was a lot of broken stuff in my house.”
He adds that not only did industry friends stop calling, but they also avoided answering his calls. Though he admits that the experience was a hurtful one, he was thankful to have a good friend like Chris Brown, who stuck with him through the difficult times.
“Chris Brown because did it for him. I stayed friends with him. I did it for everybody, but, you know, Chris the most, because he was going through so much with all the backlash and stuff he was going through. And I still called him, hit him up, visit him in the studio, checked on him, make sure was OK, went by his house, just popped up in places that he was.”
T says Ne-Yo was also a person who remained in his corner.
“Ne-Yo stayed down,” he said. “Ne-Yo was in every strip club I went to, every time I went. Where you at? I’m coming. I don’t care where you at. I’m driving, I’m flying. Anywhere.”
As for everyone else, Pain says their “friendship” was contingent upon whether or not he had a new hit coming out.
“Everybody else just kind of fell off and was just like, ‘Aight, well, make a new song and we’ll call ya.’”
Now that he’s back on the music scene, we’re wondering how those fair-weather friends are treating him.
Watch T-Pain’s interview below.
On March 1, 2004, a Los Angeles woman named Bonnie saw her life change forever. Her mother, Ella, the person she relied on for nearly everything, passed away. Up until that point, Bonnie had an unbreakable bond with her mother, never having to worry about anything and leaning on her so much that Bonnie never felt the need to exert her independence. When Ella died, Bonnie felt that a part of her died, too.
Bonnie sunk into a deep depression, unable to even leave her home. As her friends grew more and more concerned, Bonnie’s weight began spiraling out of control. Three years after her mom passed, Bonnie’s father also died, further fueling her grief.
It’s now been more than seven years since Bonnie has left her home, and five years since she has gotten out of bed. The last time she stepped on a scale five years ago, Bonnie weighed 550 pounds. Now, she says she is well over 600. Unable to care for her own basic needs, Bonnie relies on her 24-year-old daughter Jamesha for survival.
Desperate to find help for Bonnie, her friends wrote to Iyanla Vanzant in hopes she could foster the emotional and physical healing necessary to save Bonnie’s life. . When Iyanla arrived in Los Angeles, she asked Bonnie to articulate how it felt to be alive without her mother. Bonnie immediately became emotional and started to cry.
Read more about Iyanla’s new season at BlackVoices.com
My Own Battle With Depression: Why People Should Empathize With, Rather Than Criticize, Karyn Washington
“Yeah, tell me about it. Stuff around here has been crazy for me too. I can’t even begin to explain. But I can tell you that there ain’t no crystal staircases around here,” I said in a telephone mouthpiece.
I knew I had butchered Langston Hughes in my attempt to sound profound, but I was too broken to care.
And so was the long-lost girlfriend on the other end of the line. We were never super-close really, only knowing each other in a professional manner. But we were cool enough to the point that I didn’t mind her reaching out to me for help not too long ago. At the time, I just didn’t understand what she thought I could do. “Yeah I know. I’m just going through everyone in phonebook. It’s just really bad right now,” she said, as her voice trailed off into a whisper.
Admittedly, it has been a tough period in life for the both of us. She, a part-time artist, lost her full-time job back in August 2012; Me, a part-time writer, I lost my full-time gig a few months after she did in October. I was saddened to learn that, like me, she too had been struggling to make ends meet while trying to forge new paths in life. The news was somewhat stunning at the time, considering that my colleague always seems to be involved in one thing or another. If she isn’t volunteering for park projects, she is organizing events in the community or having an artist showcase. I see her name and face tagged in all sorts of happy pictures on social media, and the times I had run into her, she always seemed to be extremely positive, optimistic and in good spirits. But she was actually feeling the opposite way.
“Somedays I can’t even get out of bed. And I’m starting to think I have depression,” she confessed.
I was pissed at my friend for not reaching out to me sooner. But that annoyance quickly evaporated when I looked inward and reflected on my own inability to reach out. Then I understood: Who am I to judge?
I think this is why I find myself irked when reading the threads and conversations around the passing of Karyn Washington, founder of For Brown Girls and #DarkSkinRedLip. In particular, it is the lack of empathy and casual dismissals, which have found their way under my skin. I’m not going to call anyone out specifically, because I’m not trying to accidentally throw these specific cowry shell hawking, anti-black women ministrants anymore publicity than they already don’t deserve. But I want to speak to the less opportunistic lot of you, who seem confused about how someone can act as a beacon of empowerment for other women, and not be that for herself. Although I admired her work, I never met Washington, so I can’t tell you her whys and hows. But I can share with you my own battle with depression, which hopefully will give you insight:
I was convinced that losing my job was a universal sign that it was the time to go out and give my part-time dreams a full-time whirl. All of them. I was going to excel professionally (and more importantly, financially), find love and travel. For a while I was really believing that. And then winter arrived – both literally and figuratively. First the heater went. Then the polar vortex happened. Then my plumbing messed up because of the polar vortex. Then the parking authority had it out for me. Then my dog got injured and I had to put him to sleep. Then my grandma died. Then money wasn’t adding up…
Basically, the grand investment in myself, which I was sure the universe had co-signed, had turned into the sequel to Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Incidents.
And yet, I was walking around with a fake smile. When anybody asked how things were going, my response was always, “fine.” That’s what we are suppose to do. That’s what we are taught to do: Think positive thoughts. Think so that one day you become. Don’t give into the negative. Negative thoughts become you.
Abracadabra, laws of attraction and all the rest of the self-help jazz hands.
But by mid-February – after the umpteenth snowstorm, fifth personal crisis and the second blue letter from some utility company threatening to cut-off my lights and heat like I wasn’t still living there – I finally snapped.
I went around the house, cursing the heavens, throwing stuff and turning over furniture. It was actually quite therapeutic–until I smashed one vase too many and a fragmented piece ricocheted off the hardwood floor and smacked me right in the eyeball (To this day, I still think I have a piece of porcelain in my eye, but medicaid hasn’t expanded in my state, and I’m too poor for Obamacare, so if there is glass in my eye, I just have to make due with looking around for it right now). Man, I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I couldn’t even get angry and throw s**t, correctly? I curled up into a ball on the floor and wailed from both the emotional and physical hurt of it all.
I thought about it. I thought about the box of over-the-counter sleeping pills in the cabinet. At the time, it totally made sense. What was it all for? What am I doing here? Nothing I do seems to matter. I don’t feel like I matter, and if this is the case, I might as well make an early retirement and find out for sure what is on the other side.
I would like to say that it was faith, which told me not to take those pills that night. Believing in others, and truthfully, even myself, has not always been a strong suit of mine. Rather, I think it was actually hope that kept me strong that night–the hope that I’m wrong about everything, and that I do matter and what I do matters out here.
And it is that contradiction within myself, which inspires me to write daily on principals of justice, equality and empowerment, even at times when I feel powerless. And I imagine it is also why my friend volunteers her time and energy into the community; and why poor people in general tend to be more charitable and helpful to others than their more wealthier counterparts; and why some of us, who harbor the most personal insecurities and hang-ups, teach the virtues of loving yourself to others; and why those in lockdown are often the ones who sing the loudest about black folks gaining their freedom from racial oppression. It’s the hope that whatever we put out into the world will find ways to manifest in our own lives. Maybe.
Some folks may think I’m weak and a hypocrite. But while we ponder over the strength and vitality of those, who have thought about taking their life, and those who have actually given in to the thought, let us also remember those times when we criticized, mocked, denounced and sometimes angrily confronted people, who talk too much. You know who I’m talking about: the over-sharers on Facebook with baby-mama/daddy drama; The random lady with the frowny-face on the subway you just commanded to “smile” because, “it ain’t that bad”; The sensitive guy, who you laughed at because he dared to show tears after a hard breakup or some other personal loss. As a society, we are good at being judges and jurors, but suck really badly at being good stewards and helpmates to one another.
“Honestly I think the answer is that we have to stay connected with each other. Like, that is the only way we can get through life,” said my long-lost girlfriend on the other end of the phone line. I listened to her wax poetic some more about the emotional and physical value of interconnectedness. She made some solid points. I told her that if she is ever feeling down, I don’t care the time or day, to give me a call.
Then I hung up with her and reached out to another girlfriend, who too is part of the long-term unemployed, on top of her other personal problems. She told me she was happy I called because she was, at that moment, going through it. We talked old-school style with a single bottle of malt liquor on a park bench, unloading on each other. She listened without judgment and I listened without fake concern trolling. Nothing in any of our lives was solved that night. But at least we helped each other to not feel alone.
People suffer from depression for all sorts of reasons. From a horrible break up to just a rough patch in life, depression can hit at any time, and for some it’s a never-ending condition they have to cope with every day. If you are dealing with depression, don’t think that dating is out of the question — or that you should hide it from your partner. Here are 14 tips for dating with depression.
As black people, we are often praised for our strength. We’re tough. After all, we’re the race that endured 400 years of slavery, the Civil Rights movement, and still deal with modern-day racism disguised as something else. Still, statistically blacks see substantially lower rates in jobs and higher rates in poverty than most other races, but still we’re told to just hold on and be strong.
This strength, whether loud or quiet, is one of the reasons I take pride in being a black woman; but just like most things, it’s sometimes a gift and a curse.
This strength is one of the reasons why I’ve suffered from bouts of anxiety and never mentioned it to anyone, often telling myself I’m tough and strong women don’t cry or break. And I’ve even seen other people experience issues that could only be classified as mental illness go without help. Yes, this ‘strength’ that most black people wear as a badge of honor is sometimes the same thing that kills us.
According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Office of Minority Services, blacks are 20 percent more likely to report having serious psychological distress than whites. Still, most of us don’t seek help. We can do it. We can get through it. We’re fighters. We’ll pray on it. These are only some of the ways we try to convince ourselves. And for a while it may work, but just like any issue that goes unresolved, things usually get worse.
While some consider suicide an act least associated with our community, I disagree. We also kill ourselves, and many times, not just in the literal sense. High obesity rates, several physical illnesses, increasing poverty and high incarceration rates are telling of the times. One in every three black males is expected to go to jail at least once in his life, and if that’s not enough, studies show that black teenagers are twice as likely as whites to get pregnant at a young age. While we don’t necessarily end our lives physically, some stressed decisions slowly kill our dreams, our hopes, and our happiness.
So what’s the first step? As cliché as it sounds, being honest with yourself is most important. Admit that you’re going through a tough time, that you have issues stemming from your past, or that you’re tired of having to be so strong. Then make up in your mind that you will be committed to living a better life than your ancestors, because you have more resources than they did to speak out, speak up and seek help.
We don’t have to hurt alone or even be ashamed of our pain. As strong as we are taught to be, even the strongest people can crack; and when we do, we should seek help. Whether it’s ‘daddy issues’, a poverty-stricken childhood, sexual abuse that was swept under the rug, or low self esteem, black people need help too, and there’s no shame ins seeking out help professionally for our issues.
I come from an emotionally-stifled family. Showing extreme emotion in either direction always seemed frowned upon by elders of the family. You had better not get too giddy, especially if you were a little girl. It wasn’t ladylike to laugh loudly. You better not sit too long sulking or being sad. You have too much to be grateful for to allow that. And if someone made you angry? You better not fly off the handle. In fact, you better perfect your poker face so not even the slightest hint of anger can creep across your face.
I had no way of realizing it for a long time, but I had been taught to be emotionally dead for most of my childhood. I would smile when it was appropriate. I would grieve in private. I would stifle my rage over injustice. I would bottle my feelings up to maintain a comfortable space for those around me. I was a robot.
I had stuffed the height and depth of any emotion so far down into myself that I didn’t know how to express the overabundance of joy I felt at times, or how to feel and express the red rage I felt at other times. I didn’t know how to deal with my long and hard bout with depression. I didn’t even recognize it as depression for the first year.
It took hours of prayer, meditation, Bible-reading, journaling, sunlight, upbeat music, self-reflective questioning, and conversation for me to reach deep enough to find myself again. Under all the buried thoughts, feelings, emotions, screams and cries, there I was. It hit me like a left jab to the jaw:
The more I stifled my natural joyous responses to minimize disapproval from the more reserved members of my family, the more depressed I felt, and the more negative emotions sank into my spirit. The more I tried to fight negative emotions, the deeper their roots grew and the more I was controlled by them. That’s not quite right, is it? I had to learn that negative emotions WILL pass if I decided to take control of them by ALLOWING them their time. If someone gets under my skin, I allow myself to feel anger. If a situation hurts me, I allow the hurt to wash over me, but only for a time. I give myself time to be human in feeling whatever comes to me. And then, I get up. I look for and apply the lesson in it, I channel it toward something creative and I move forward.
Understanding and healthily expressing my emotions creates a safe space for me as someone in a society that increasingly embraces the disingenuous for appearances’ sake. Being free to express emotion honestly should be a right from birth, not an epiphany had during a quarter-life crisis. My trajectory has shown me in 3-D that it is important for sanity, honest and open communication with others, and genuine self-expression. I wasn’t gifted the opportunity of space and time on this earth to be a robot, clone or drone. Some of us wait a lifetime, but I’m elated that I’ve been blessed to make this discovery, now, at 27 years old. Now, I can live a lifetime of free expression.
La Truly is a writer, college professor and young women’s empowerment enthusiast. She mixes her interest in social and cultural issues with her life experiences to encourage thought, discussion and positive change among young Women of Color. Follow her on Twitter: @AshleyLaTruly and check out her site: www.hersoulinc.com.
Bill de Blasio’s 19-year-old daughter, Chiara de Blasio, is talking candidly about her struggles with drugs and depression, just days before her father’s inauguration. Up until now her father’s campaign team had worked hard to suppress the details about Chiara’s problems, so as not to distract from the image of a happy and tight-knit family from Brooklyn, reports The New York Times. But she’s coming clean in a new video that has been posted for the public.
In the five-minute clip, Chiara speaks candidly about her adolescent battle with depression, which led to drinking and drug use. These habits heightened when she was attending college in California last year.
In the video, Chiara, dressed in a colorful headband and a taupe T-shirt, speaks in typical teenage cadences, saying her effort to become sober has been “the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
She also described a sense of “physical insecurity” after leaving her parents’ home in Brooklyn for Santa Clara University in 2012. It was during this period she grew dependent on marijuana and alcohol.
Chiara’s video announcement was met with a statement from the director of the Office of National Drug Control Policy at the White House, who praised her “tremendous bravery in speaking out about her recovery.”
According to the de Blasio team, the video is an effort to help those who might be suffering from similar issues during the holiday season. Others says that Chiara’s substance abuse has long a subject of speculation in the New York political world and the video allows the family to approach the subject on their own terms. Still others say the timing was important, with many people choosing to “dump” unfavorable news during the holidays when the public are more concerned with holiday festivities.
“She speaks to it with incredible courage and clarity and, you know, with a voice that really suggests an incredible wisdom for someone who’s only 19 years old,” the mayor-elect said.
According to an individual familiar with the situation, Chiara had wanted to speak out about her substance abuse during the mayoral campaign, but her parents were concerned about how that might affect her recovery.
New Yorkers responded positively to the personal nature of de Blasio’s campaign – from talk of Bill de Blasio’s family problems growing up (his dad committed suicide), to his wife’s changing sexuality — and might do so as well to Chiara’s video.
“Now, every one of those members of that family is part of our lives, and will continue to be for as long as Bill de Blasio is in office,” Hank Sheinkopf, a political consultant, said. “They will be part of our daily New York drama, whether they like it or not, and whether we like it or not.”