I didn't intend this to be my first blog entry, but something has been weighing heavily on my heart for several days now.
A couple weeks ago, you may have heard about the death of 22 year-old Karyn Washington. She was the founder of the blog "For Brown Girls" and the #DarkSkinRedLip Project. Both were founded to inspire, encourage, and empower darker-skinned Black women to love their looks, share their experiences, and feel comfortable in their own skin. I read she died of an apparent suicide, and she had been suffering from mental illness and depression. The depression became worse after the death of her mother.
Ms. Washington's death has struck a chord with me for a few reasons. For one, having grown up as a dark-skinned Black girl in South Carolina, I know all too well how the ridicule and teasing of your looks can affect you. Because of that, I applauded her efforts to empower other dark chocolate sistahs. Secondly, she was only 22 years old. At 22, my life was just beginning. I had just graduated from college and was looking forward to starting my adult life. 22 is so incredibly young.
Lastly, how many of us can identify with her? I know I'm raising my hand. We are everything to everyone, but we fail to take care of ourselves both physically and mentally. We have many people in our lives who love us. Yet ... we wear a mask. We smile on the outside but are hurting and crying on the inside. Why is it so hard for Black women to ask for help? Why do we find it necessary to be strong all the time? Why is it so shameful to see a professional when we've run out of answers?
We have so much on our plates and so many demands on our time. We are wives, mothers, community leaders, caregivers, entrepreneurs, etc. And let's not forget to factor in some other things we may be going through ... illness, aging parents, lost loved ones, lost jobs, mounting bills, failing relationships. It can all be overwhelming. I know. I consider myself a strong person, but it's hard for me to reach out for help. I don't want to feel weak or vulnerable, and I definitely don't want to be seen in that way. So like so many of us sistahs, I smile. I tell everyone I'm fine when I am wasting away on the inside.
Sistahs, we have to do better. We have to be strong enough to know when we need help, when we're at our breaking point, and when we are having thoughts that we no longer matter enough to live. As much as I love God and believe in the power of prayer, we can't always pray away depression. We can attend all the church services in the world and pray 'til we've worn holes in our knees, but God put mental health professionals on Earth for a reason. We can't be afraid to seek their help.
Also, if you know a sistah (or anyone) who is going through a difficult time in their lives, reach out to them. Check on them. You'd be surprised at how much an encouraging word or gesture can do to a person who is in despair.
I used to work with someone who attempted suicide a few years ago. They were going through a bad time in their life and decided ending their life was the answer to their problems. The suicide attempt failed. That person did get help, and they are the happiest I've seen them in years. To remind them of what they had to live for, they had their daughter's name tattooed on their arm. Moral of the story? Whatever you have to do to remind yourself that you matter, that you are loved, that your death is not the answer to your problem, that's EXACTLY what you have to do.
Ms. Washington, I never met you, but your untimely death has been a wake-up call to me. Thank you for your work in our community. May your death not be in vain and serve to encourage others to reach out for help in their times of need.
