Bipolar Disorder Never Looked So Good
Originally published in August 2020
If there is one thing that the COVID-19 pandemic has shown me, it is that some things in life are out of my control. Growing up black and male in predominately white schools and a patriarchal society taught me to value management, power, and influence. You did not make it unless you had at least two of the three placed snugly under your belt.
We barely talked about our struggles in conversations with my black male associates. We just pushed through. We coped by listening to gangster rap and earning/spending money. For my even more ambitious peers, we started businesses, performed well enough to gain awards, and got accepted to Ivy League Institutions.
For the majority of the last seven years of my life, my ambition was the key to fighting negativity, pain, and even loneliness. To me, working hard was like being rich. To this point, I often heard my peers say they would prefer to cry in a Benz than cry while walking down the street. I wholly understood what they meant. However, I was more of an Audi type of guy.
I often heard my peers say they would prefer to cry in a Benz than call while walking down the street. I wholly understood what they meant. However, I was more of an Audi type of guy.
So, for most of my college years, I hid my struggles behind trips to coffee shops for caffeine rushes, freshly pressed suits, and almost spotless attire. I always had a haircut and was busy. Also, I held membership in several organizations. I was proud to support them all at their service events, galas, and pop-up fundraisers.
However, at the same time: “I looked good…” I was struggling with extreme depression. My mood was characterized by extreme highs and depressing lows. For many years, my mood fluctuated severely multiple times daily, often disabling me when I needed to feel best.
During quarantine, I realized I could not mask it anymore. My constant trips to coffee shops were halted by shop closings. The typical club meetings I attended once a week were now virtual or non-existent, and my barbershop was closed. Also, there was no need to “dress well” because I was not going out anyway. Coping with my challenges began to become impossible.
Amid the George Floyd protests, I found myself swirling in emotions. Hashtags filled social media, and I was at home, using the last bit of my student loan refund to buy stuff I didn’t need. I had packages arriving on my doorstep nearly daily for a week.
When the money ran out, my mental health was decimated. After an “incident,” I went to the hospital for suicidal ideations.
There I was, a black man with everything seemingly going for him checking in for suicidal thoughts. I felt like a failure, felt weak, and powerless. Almost everything I was told equated to “a man” was no longer consistent with me.
When the money ran out, my mental health was decimated. After an “incident,” I went to the hospital for suicidal ideations.
I was hospitalized on Juneteenth and discharged on Father’s Day. A few weeks later, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Although I knew my symptoms from the past few years were consistent with this diagnosis.
Although I have bipolar disorder, I am a college-educated black man, a teacher, writer, poet, and businessman who struggles with mental wellness. I decided to get help because I no longer cared about stigma. I realized that whoever was meant to be in my corner would be regardless of my challenges.
I can’t believe I’m saying this, but getting therapy is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced. Also, there’s nothing wrong with trying a few medications to help you maintain. Take this from someone who has been there: the world needs you here. Things get better. There can be hope when you don’t care who is watching. In your lowest moments, the only person who matters is YOU. Not your job, significant other, or everyone on your non-profit’s board. YOU.
Stay healthy and encouraged. I mean that, for real.
-Don
