Mental Health is Not a ‘White People Disease’: My Diagnosis and Addressing the Stigma Around Black Mental Health

By Rose Bud

There is a daunting problem surrounding mental health within the black community. In an effort to fix personal issues on their own, many people in our community turn to self-medication, which then leads to spiralling addictions or isolation, rather than seeking clinical treatment for conditions like depression and anxiety. 

Some people believe that mental disorders are medical conditions that need medication. Other people, normally from cultures where there is a serious stigma that a mental health disorder is a sign of personal failure, believe that they should be kept a secret. Experience, cultural values, and formal schooling are all factors that contribute to the formation of which of these beliefs on mental illness a person holds. Friendship and family stories are also relevant. 

There is a lot of stigma associated with mental illness in the Black community specifically: the Black community is more likely to equate mental illness with guilt and humiliation, and individuals and families from the Black community are often more likely to conceal their disease. People within the Black community may feel that because they have overcome so much suffering, they are powerful and that no one has the authority to tell them that something is wrong with them. Studies have shown that the mental health of Black women in particular is suffering. 

As a Black woman growing up in a household of Afro-Caribbean descent, there were a lot of emotions I had to repress. These emotions weren't seen as normal, or they were seen as feelings only white people would feel. This way of thinking reinforced the notion in my mind that it's not okay to admit that we're in pain on the inside, and I know I’m not the only one affected by this. I've talked with other Black people, who have admitted that they don’t want to talk about their problems because they're afraid of being branded as poor or less than as a person – this truly saddens me. 

I remember the first time that I became aware of my own struggles with mental health. I was around seven, and I pretty much used to beat myself up about a lot of things. But the harsh words I used to spill out to myself turned into sleepless nights and then into self-harm. I didn’t understand why I was doing certain things to myself. All I knew at the time was that me doing it helped me because I deserved it; I couldn’t keep messing up everything, and I had to be punished when I did. I remember at 14 years of age knowing that I didn’t want to live. I felt like an object with no purpose and with no place that I actually belonged. As the years went by, after seeing doctor after doctor and only being given anti-depressants (which I was, in turn, only partly taking), I was feeling like I was withering away. I just snapped: I knew death was itching to grab me, and I had no more fight left in me. I never actively thought of taking my life, but at the point, if it happened, I wouldn’t have cared. I felt then that I was no longer a person but a problem. I completely neglected myself. 

Coming to the age of 24 and recently being diagnosed with Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (also known as Borderline Personality Disorder), I always find myself remembering those dark periods of time. Of course, I still sometimes have them now, but I get very frustrated when I think back to how my younger self carried on like everything was fine – like life was great and I wasn’t affected by what was going on around me. The honest truth is this: I can’t forgive myself for not asking for help when I most needed it.

I was the shy, timid little girl who, when experiencing failure, found myself bashing my head against the wall. Other times, I didn't eat for a week because I shouldn’t have messed up something that other people found so easy. I was so hard on myself, on the way I looked and for the way I was viewed; I let it consume me, and I began to hate everything about myself. I wouldn't say that I like myself now, necessarily, but there are days that are less hard. I have relapsed a couple of times, here and there, but I am still on this journey of trying to figure myself out and get the help that I need – I have not fallen off my path. I hope to live a life in which I am content and comfortable. 

I want Black people to know that they are magic. The ongoing pain that they are going through doesn’t define them. Yes, you are strong. But it’s okay to let that guard down; you don’t have to be strong all the time because, in reality, that isn’t realistic. Crying is okay. When we were born, that’s how the doctors knew we were alive, and even though it is labelled as a weak trait, it’s what makes us most alive in those vulnerable moments. I can tell you for free that poor mental health isn’t a white people disease. 

Mental illness doesn’t discriminate. It can affect any one of us at any time, but that ‘power’ that it has does not detract from the power that you hold within yourself. There are days you will go toe to toe with your mind; it will play tricks on you and you will feel like the world has turned its back on you. You will feel small and less than when that is not the case. You are important – you always have been and always will be. Never let other people ‘all lives matter’ you and tell you that your mental health doesn’t matter. Black mental health matters.  

This is not to suggest that the mental wellbeing of other groups is unimportant. Since our culture is often neglected, and our mental health issues are frequently ignored, Black mental health is specifically mentioned here. I am addressing the specific stigma that exists in our communities. Make sure this isn't a "what about ____?" scenario. Understand that mental health is not colour-blind. Take the time today to value and embrace not only the skin you're in, but also the essence that resides within it.

Sources:

Are black people affected by mental health issues - TLC Counselling

Black women and mental health problems | UNISON National