There Is No Sympathy for Black Men Struggling With Mental Health

Pursuing my own peace of mind for 15 years hasn’t been easy, but it’s been indispensable

Vaughn Stafford Gray
LEVEL

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Illustration: Derek Abella

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MMost times, when someone asks “how are you?” I lie. It’s not that I’m a sociopath, or have a pathological aversion to the truth; it’s that, for a Black man living with depression, those three words are loaded enough to induce angst. If I answered honestly, it would result in a heavy conversation, which is generally the opposite of what someone expects in response to an autopilot pleasantry.

What motivates that heavy conversation changes day to day. Sometimes I could be fresh out of an elevator ride where a White lady instinctively clutched her purse tighter. Sometimes it’s the memory of being followed by a security guard in a grocery store. Or it could be thinking of a former roommate who, after I refused to go to a bar to be her wingman, launched into a tirade that included the veiled threat, “I am a young White woman with a big Black man in her home.” (To avoid confrontation, and assuage my fears of having to explain myself to the police, I packed my suitcases and moved out. At 4 a.m.) Or the ex who called me her “personal…

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