Depression

I wasn’t thankful. I was too negative. I wasn’t doing enough. When I found out my mood swings weren't my fault, that I had bipolar disorder, I cried.

Who knew crying in bed with chocolate would change my life?

Today in, You Can Ask Google Literally Anything: Am I Clinically Depressed?

I know it’s a lie when I tell myself that I’m “simply off” or “maybe I’m just having a few bad days” or “I’m in a funk” or “I must be upset about something, but I don’t know what.”

This is my depression. It returned the other day. And it spoke to me.

Here’s the thing about depression: it cycles. Even when I’m on medication, going to therapy and doing everything I’m able to do in order to stay healthy and keep it at bay, it bleeds in and out of my soul.

I wanted to look as white and non-threatening as possible because the invisibility of my disability in conjunction with the vulnerability of being a Black woman was absolutely unbearable.

I wanted to look as white and non-threatening as possible because the invisibility of my disability in conjunction with the vulnerability of being a Black woman was absolutely unbearable.