Over-Sharing: For Colored Girls (And Boys) Who Committed Suicide When Being A "Strong Black Person" Wasn't Enough
Monday, April 6, 2009 at 12:59AM My name is Danielle Belton and I am a woman.
I possess no super human strength. I cannot go it alone. I cannot carry the unnamed pains of the past alone. I can not blindly defend my abusers no more than I can take their abuse. I get mad. I cry. I am confused. I want to be loved. I want to be understood. I don't want judgement or condemnation, persecution or accusations. I don't want to be accused of calling the world to fall from grace as if I were dining on that fruit alone.
God named me "Imperfect" and I can't dance for anyone anymore. I can't pretend because it doesn't help you and it doesn't help me, it just perpetuates the same cycle of "The Strong Black Woman," the "Strong Black Man" and the place where we part to go our own ways in life, bitter and broken.
In 2001, my "strong black woman" fallacies officially broke into pieces as I contemplated a "him or me" situation with a man I'd been with for three years. After all his time taking my once high self-esteem and wearing it down to a nub, the last bit of fighter in me wanted to take myself out, but I wasn't going alone.
(More after the jump)
In the end, I couldn't do it. But I had a problem. A contradiction. I was and still am a Liberal who is for a woman's right to end a marriage, yet I did not want the "shame" of divorce. Very few in my family were divorced. I was naive, believing love was supposed to last forever.
So there was only one way out -- death.
I knew it was wrong to hope that the cops would come to the door one night and just say he was dead. A few months later his own arrogance would lead him to abandoning me, expecting me to follow rather than run 2,000 miles away and start over.
It would have been too easy for it to just be over after that, but you can't endure three years of psychological torture and not come out like a member of the land of broken toys. Our relationship was a Folie à Deux, a cult of two. But I didn't blame him because of how I was. Typical of victims to see fault in themselves, but there was a hunger inside of me that made me an easy target.
The passive nature. The gentle spirit. The obsession with diplomacy and justice. The creative arts. I was always this way a little. I had a host of childhood phobias, many embarrassing. I was sensitive with a gentle heart -- something the world always seemed determined to cure me of.
I learned quickly that no one cared when you cried, especially if you were a black child. You learned early on your tears were to be stifled, tucked away, buried, evaporated. Maybe you mother taught you this. Or your father. Or a grandparent or teacher. But you learned very early on that no one cared how you felt.
If you were born a hard-ass, no big I suppose. If you were born a lover like me, it was like taking a pacifist and putting a gun in their hand and ordering them to shoot others or be shot.
Despite this, I held on to most of my authentic, sensitive persona until I met him and he spun a story of a life of hardship and pain. He painted me as the wide-eyed doe in the woods he needed to rescue. At first I played along, placating his ego, but soon the lies about us became truths and he was my stalwart buck victorious and I was that doe and we relished in the freshly harvested candor of manufactured bliss.
Years later I'm sweating because he doesn't believe in air conditioning and it's 1103 degrees in the West Texas heat. And there's a fish tank in the bedroom that keeps me from sleeping along with his jungle sound tapes and because I am well trained I do not complain when the apartment fills with moths from the lights and the open windows. I do not complain about filth, his lack of job or how he doesn't say 'I Love You.' I am a peacemaker. I care about feelings.
He does not.
When he cheats on me I say nothing. He dumps me in an Olive Garden and I don't make a scene because he tells me not to. I am 23 years old. I have lost 35 lbs and I am always running a 100.1 fever. I had gone from looking charming and desirable to a schlub. But I didn't hate him. I blamed myself.
I blamed myself for years.
It would be too easy for it to end with him 2,000 miles away.
I once mentioned a bomb in my head, lying doormat, waiting to go off. That bomb was Bipolar Disorder. Specifically Bipolar Type II. For years I'd lived with a mild version of it, enjoying productive highs and sad lows, but nothing dramatic. Post the trauma of the divorce I ping-ponged from ecstasy to suicidal.
I was misdiagnosed several times for four years. That meant four years of almost ending it all from bad reactions to Zoloft and Lexapro, going into deep despairs over loneliness, the pressures of being a well-known reporter in Bakersfield, Calif., the fear of any man who looked like my ex and the over all rudeness of those who used my illness to their own gain.
I say all this because for the less than astute my "vacation" was really a 10-day stint in a psych ward after my medication stopped working. I wanted many times to write about my illness, but fear kept me from opening up, but after this, my fourth trip to the hospital in six years, I felt it was time to share my story so that others know they are not alone. That it is OK to seek help. That mental illness among black people is real no matter who those people are. There is no shame in it. There is no shame in asking for help. There is no shame in taking off that superwoman and superman cape and saying some thing are bigger than me.
In the darkest point of my relationship I prayed for three hours not for my husband to leave or die or disappear. I just asked to be happy again, like I used to be.
I didn't have the strength to get rid of that man. I'm not a religious woman, but I strongly believe God tricked that man out of my life. But God didn't work alone. I had friends. I had family. I had co-workers. I had people who loved and cared about me who cared for me when I didn't care about myself. Who protected me when I refused to protect myself.
You can't carry this on your own. We need to carry each other, not judge each other. We need to give each other the real intimacy and tenderness we were denied for so many years.
We need redemption and forgiveness.
We need love. And we need to stop acting like we don't need it. Open your arms and you'll be surprised at what you may receive back.
The Snob, bipolar disorder, depression, mental illness in Rants, The Snob 
Reader Comments (84)
I am touched by your willingness to share this. Of course, I applaud your strength, as sharing this story couldn't have been an easy thing to do, but moreover, I am awed by your desire to help others at this particular moment--when no one else would blame you for putting yourself first. Thank you so much. I will be passing this on...
@ nathedem
I just got tired of pretending. And I knew others were suffering so I figured, if not me, then who? Someone has to get the conversation going. And in a lot of ways acknowledging what happened in my marriage is my therapy as I was (and in some ways still am) in deem denial about the horribleness of it.
But thanks. I appreciate the kind words and support.
Danielle, your honesty shows some real strength and the fact that you have that means that this illness won't overcome you if you keep working at it. There are so many people who can't put their feelings into words so your doing this will surely touch someone who needs it desperately. You're still a superwoman Snob, your human challenges can't change that.
Your bravery and willingness to reveal your vulnerability have left me (almost) speechless. My late high school years and early twenties were plagued with misdiagnoses of depression, and while my parents are wonderful people, they too were old school black folks who "didn't believe in" manic depression. After a few years they came around, and with their help I've been a happy and productive person. I hope that your family and friends give you the love and support you need and deserve.
Thank you for speaking to, and for, all of the black women who suffer in silence. We need you.
I applaud your strength to go through those moments when you may sometimes just want to stop.
My cousin was diagnosed with Bipolar a few years ago, after unsuccessfully (thankfully) trying to end her life. Prior to that, I was aware of the prevalence of mental illness within the black community and difficulties in actually hearing people talk about it.
After my cousin's diagnosis, I tried to understand what being Bipolar was all about. Today, in my conversations, I still hear a few people make reference to seeing therapists, for example, and mental illness as a 'white thing' or thing for posh people and it infuriates me. They should know better, they DO know better...
I do not live close to my cousin (we are 'ponds away') and there are moments when it is difficult to cope with the sadness or the extreme joy from her but I do try to understand that she is also trying to make it a day at a time.
So, to you and my cousin and the strength within...
British Snob
Thanks for sharing this. So many black women need to read this, so they can put a name to what they feel and know that it's alright.
I don't really know you, I just follow your blog. But I know you will make something beautiful from this and use it to help others, because that's who you are.
Sometimes the lovers of the world go through rough spots to realize that it's important (and okay) to love themselves too.
Peace and Blessings
J
Danielle. You were brave enough to share, brave enough to call it out by name, brave enough to get treatment, and, most of all, brave enough to keep at it, which is likely the most difficult of all.
I am very thankful that you do have an outlet, a divinely given gift of expression, which undoubtedly is as healing for you as it is enjoyable for us, your readers. You have my unflagging support, and I will keep you in my meditations, sister!
I am speechless. It took tons of strength to share this with us, Danielle. I am happy that you have an outlet as well, and I appreciate your willingness to discuss bipolar disorder, your experience of it, and how you have coped and survived. You are truly a gift, woman.
A Hoosier Snob
I'm also bi-polar, and very closeted about it. My family won't acknowledge my illness. I've learned to manage it (mostly by removing myself from situations that make it flare up) and consider myself lucky that I can do so.
Thank you for being so brave and speaking out when so many of us cannot.
You are my hero.
Thank you for sharing this. I'm at work fighting tears because I see so much of myself in what you said, but I always try to hide it and play it off. You've moved me more than I can say. Thank you.
I've just recently allowed myself to take medication for depression. It has changed my life!! I was so stubborn for so long and I didn't want to seem weak. I finally feel like myself again. Just know that you are not alone. So many people struggle with these issues and so few are willing to share their experiences. Thank you.
Thank You so much for sharing your story. For a long time I was trying to figure out what was wrong with me. I was to closed minded to the idea that I may a psychological problem. It surprised me because I have always been opening to getting psychological help. It was hard for me to cope with the ending of a relationship with the man who I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Now I am in tears. This was very powerful. I am so glad you opened up and opened the discussion for being bi-polar and seeking professional psychological help. I have diagnosed with depression. I still have a hard time with taking the medication because I have other issues with taking prescription meds. I really do not want to grow dependent on those things. I want to fight. I am no superwoman but I am very aware of my problems and I have to take it one moment at a time.
How wonderful for you Danielle to find yourself strong enought face your truth and deal with it head on. How wonderful for your readers to have this opportunity to learn from your experiences. Thank you!
Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.--General Omar Bradley
"Come to the edge," He said. They said, "We are afraid." "Come to the edge," He said. They came. He pushed them...and they flew.--Guillaume Apollinaire
for me, it was anxiety and depression rather than Bipolar, but otherwise your story sounds incredibly familiar. I've been there, and I'm so sorry that you have had to be there, but I love that you're coming back strong. Sometimes just the choice to keep on going takes enormous courage. Brava, Snob.
Thank you so much for sharing your story...and please continue to take care of yourself! We love you!
Danielle,
I am a therapist and I also live with someone who suffers from Major Depressive Disoder with Manic Features. I've always hearted you since I discovered your blog, but I have just three words for you now, which describe both your story, and you: Brave, Bold, Beautiful. Thank you.
Thanks for sharing your story! I admire and respect you even more for this!
Take care of you.
Peace and Blessings.
I am humbled that you have the courage to speak your truth. So many times we speak from the illusion of ourselves. The illusions that we create and wrap ourselves in to shelter from the pain of who we really are.
It is my hope that you become the peaceful soul you are indeed worthy of. Be well.
I've said it once and I will say it again, you are my she-ro. Thank you for being open and honest.
If it's not too painful, please keep writing about it. This is such a wonderful mode of support those in the same situation who may feel isolated.
*hugs of encouragement* Keep going... You have so much to offer the world!