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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
Update 6/7/22: Level has a new home. You can read this article and other new articles by visiting LEVELMAN.com.
Most 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…
