“Just cut my pizza for me.”
On the murder of Sonya Massey, and Black mental health.
TW: Suicidal ideation, planning, suicide hotline, self-harm
Reader,
I use my library’s Libby app more than the average person. Of this I am absolutely certain. You can often find me cursing aloud when I have to wait 4–7weeks for a new audio book title to be available. But! It’s free and supports the library.
I struggle with nonfiction in both audio and book formats. I was bored when I borrowed, “Ain’t I a Woman” by bell hooks. It’s usually hard to concentrate on nonfiction, but new meds have finally addressed that.
Within the first hour or so of listening, one thing became clear: Black women don’t get to be people. From our exclusion from the early years of the Women’s Liberation movement, (they meant white women), to the assumption that pain can be overcome for the greater good of the community, (securing Black men’s place in a patriarchal, white supremacist society), it became clear that this shit isn’t brand new.
Black women don’t get to be people. And
— — —
If praying my depression and CPTSD away was an option, I would consider going back to church.
Like many BIPOC friends, mental illness wasn’t something you discussed outside of closed doors. At best, it was, “something only white people struggled with.” At worst, it was demonic possession. Which, in retrospect, would be cool. Imagine crawling up a wall in a tattered white nightgown and your head spinning backward to utter down to your aghast family, “I’ve been having trouble keeping up with my dishes.”
Like my queerness, I don’t discuss my mental health with my mother. I want it to stay in her version of reality, some fairytale version of her daughter complete with spell casting, rituals, and devils. It’s also why I didn’t call her when I needed help staying safe.* Because if her answer had been to call the police for a wellness check, it’s very possible I would not be here now.
*alive
Sonya died in her kitchen in her pajamas.
I had changed into my pajamas and cleaned off my couch to die on.
Google is useful for a lot. Especially painless ways to “unsubscribe” as my friends and I have come to call it.
Instead, I sent a text and was soon surrounded by friends, pizza, and not one, but 4 new hats for my cat. If I was going to be embarrassed by needing help, someone else would be embarrassed with me. My cat looked like the most ridiculous strawberry I had ever seen.
When I say that I am afraid of the police, do you get what I mean?
It has felt selfish to carry so much grief for Sonya with me. As if not knowing her personally does not permit me these large feelings. But I am Sonya.
I am a Black woman with a mental illness.
I’m someone’s family member.
I’m not a threat.
I’ve also said, “I rebuke you.”
I’ve also pleaded to not be hurt.
On the phone with the suicide hotline for the first time, I insisted that I “never do this.” As if crumbling from the inside out was as inconvenient as arriving late to a first date. What if they had called the police or what if my therapist has to do their duty?
There are days when being a Black gay woman feels hard. And there are days when it feels as if I am the least of anyone’s concern, humanity not something granted to Black women in our kitchens and in our pajamas and crumbling more than usual.
I don’t say that “xyz” thing saved my life. I don’t want anything to have that much power. (Another conversation for my therapist.)
I save my own life on the the regular.
