By Kayla Barrett

I’ve always known the women in my family to be strong. They were the type of women that had the ability to carry their own pain and still nurture people while hurting. But for a reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, my own pain felt like a haunting.

During my teenage years, it seemed like I was never able to get a handle on my depression. It seemed to be so persistent. No matter how many trips to the Barnes and Nobles self-help section or daily affirmations, nothing seemed to keep the sadness at bay. No matter how many diets and exercises I tried or the different substances I abused, melancholy kept living in my back pocket. I would sit in my college bible study group, looking for answers on why the God we all prayed to could perform miracles but couldn’t heal my depression. 

Early on in life, I learned what I thought was the best way to pretend you have it all together: to remain silent about your suffering. I never told anyone about my self-harm or the emptiness that I felt, the insecurities that plagued me or the closet that I shoved my queerness into. Every day I decided to wake up and ‘perform’ my way through life. It felt like I was pulling trick after trick out of my back pocket as I learned how to fake a smile, cover my scars, mask my queerness, and hide my insecurities.

Depression was the first magic trick I ever learned. I knew how to be around my favourite people, all while trying to maintain the expectations of being a woman with a good head on her shoulders, all while feeling empty inside. Nothing seemed worthy of celebrating, and I didn’t like myself enough to care about anything. 

Everyone around me wanted to celebrate my accomplishments. I had friends who saw me for who I was, and I even found love in a girl who made me feel alive for a moment. And yet, there was a constant void that made me feel like my world was operating upside down. Over time, the sadness grew into anger, which grew into self-harm, which spiralled into substance abuse, followed by meltdowns. And after the many times that my lover decided to stop loving me, I decided to stop loving myself as well.

I’ve always wondered if people would look at my mania and still call it black girl magic. As time progressed and I transitioned into college, I was able to move away to a new city for school and able to try and find myself without close supervision. This transitioned my depression into many extreme manic and mixed episodes that always came without warning and without permission. 

My moods started to become cycles of depression, mania, and periods where I was experiencing both at the same time. My mind was so out of control that when I developed my psychosis symptoms, they almost felt too normal to notice. I was so out of touch with reality that the voices, paranoia, and delusions all felt natural in the world my head had created. 

As a black woman, there is no easy way to share your vulnerability and struggles in a society where the expectations of us sit so heavy. The ‘strong black woman’ has been used to title us into a role that means putting the things we carry behind us and showing up as someone almost superhuman. But if there is anything that I’ve learned about womanhood, it’s that in order to truly thrive and step into your power, you have to see yourself exactly as you are. 

You have to tend to the parts of you that require more attention and learn to give yourself the same grace you give others. At some point, you have to pull the mask down and reveal to yourself what it is you are truly facing. The wellness of your mind and mental state matter just as much as the physical aspects. You can still be strong with a therapist, and you can still be resilient while taking medications.

Although Bipolar disorder is a lifelong illness, I don’t have to spend the rest of my life fighting between sanity and instability. This disorder looks different on everyone it affects, but the exhaustion that comes with it is universal. After growing into my new life of psychiatry and therapy sessions, daily medication intake, and an all-around new lifestyle, I carry this diagnosis as inspiration to share my journey with other women around me. Sharing our truths allows us to free ourselves from the things that are holding on without permission. 

Our stories may not be perfect and may even feel frightening at times, but our voices will always be worth hearing. The darkness that you find yourself in may feel all-consuming at times, but know that just as the sun is destined to set, it is also destined to rise and shine again. Bipolar disorder may be a part of who I am, but I’ve decided that it will not be the thing that defines my existence and all the beauty that comes with it.