I’ve had many challenges and experiences that I’ve learned from. This is one that I continue to learn from every single day of my life because it affects me every single day of my life. Yet this is one that I’m most hesitant to share. It’s just that everyone has a sob story, and I refuse to let this be one. So, this is me cutting myself open, while another me uses a stick to point at different parts of me as if I’m an anatomical diagram. (Pointing with a stick) “This is my crippling anxiety. This is my ‘using humor’ as a coping mechanism instead of handling or confronting my problems. This is my immobilizing depression, which is right next to my love for animals. It gets weird.” When I was younger it felt as if the only emotion, I could have was happiness. I don’t mean that, I must keep smiling for my family way. But in me being anything else but happy was unacceptable or psychologically punishable in a way. When I was little, I could pull my mother to the side and tell her how and what makes me uncomfortable and she would listen. But as I got older it became, “What could you know about these things or actions that make you uncomfortable.” or “How dare you be unhappy in this household despite all the things I do for you!” I live with my mother and my grandma.
My grandma moved from Ghana when I was born to come help raise me because my father wasn’t around. He wasn’t completely out of my life just highly inconsistent. He’ll promise to come one day and then come five months to a year later. My dad would promise my mother something, something simple. Cleaning her car for example. Then some slight inconvenience would happen, and instead of telling her he’s got to reschedule or can’t make it. He would duck her calls for a few days or a week then say “Sorry I couldn’t make it I’m in Mexico.” And he would actually be in Mexico, or someplace crazy and out of the country such as London or China. My dad used to DJ a lot when I was younger so people would pay for him to go wherever they needed him to be and he would just hightail it and go without telling anyone. Especially when he couldn’t keep his simple promises. Do you know how long it takes/how fast you must be to get from Maryland to Mexico in two days? My dad couldn’t stay in one place when you needed him. We really should have built a wall around him.
My mom had two kids at the time. Me and my little brother Ebenezer, we call him PaaKow cause we’re Ghanaian, would later go on to have my baby brother Jayden with my dad when I was ten. She had the two of us and my grandma helping, so we were managing completely fine without him. To the point where I thought him not being in my life was normal and I didn’t really care because that’s what I was used to. He didn’t affect me negatively, he just does his thing and I do mine. But the mental toll it must have taken on my mother did affect me because it was directed at me. My mom is the definition of a strong independent woman that doesn’t need a man. She personally doesn’t need my father, but she felt as if we did, “when in reality we couldn’t care less.” It pained her that he wasn’t trying to be more active in our lives and his constant lies. But if something happened to me and my mother thought I was lying even, when I was telling the truth, she would get in my face and yell at me and tell me I was a “liar just like my father.” She wouldn’t believe me despite all I said. Between the ages of 4-6, I was labeled a “liar just like my father” despite telling the truth. So, I eventually became a liar because it was easier to tell her what she wanted to hear instead of what happened. I couldn’t tell the truth about my feelings because they weren’t that serious, and I couldn’t tell the truth in general because she wouldn’t believe me. My mom stopped telling me those things when I was six but still hearing that at the age of four isn’t the best for your newly developing mental state. It’s as if you’re buying a new car and putting the brakes where the engine should be and vice versa.
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In other words, things aren’t going to look good down the road. When I was 8 is when my depression officially kicked in. I was sad and I didn’t know why. I couldn’t turn to my mother for help because she didn’t understand, and she would make me feel worse for the feelings I already harbored. Because of this I eventually became numb to certain and many emotions except anger. I felt anger because I couldn’t properly express what I was going through at home. I put on a happy façade because it felt as if that was all I was allowed to show. So, for a long time, most of my moments of happiness didn’t feel genuine. I recognized it in my head, but I didn’t feel it in my heart. It was hard because my mother never took my feelings seriously. There were times when I would tell her and she would seem to understand, then the next day she would tell me I was too dramatic or she didn’t care or would belittle or downplay my feelings. There was a time when I struggled with self-harm, I burned myself and my mother found out. Her reaction was to take a lighter, set it in my face, and tell me that she wanted to see me burn myself. She wouldn’t let me leave until I did, and when I refused, she told me she knew it. I wasn’t about “that life” and went on a tangent on how she’s seen depression and how I’m overly sensitive, not depressed. To my mother, depression has a certain characteristic or lifestyle and since I didn’t fit that to the T, I wasn’t depressed. Every time I sought out help or tried to tell others about how I felt my mother would somehow, no matter what, always find out. It was terrifying, no matter how careful I was, my mom would always find out about me telling people sad.
My mom would always be offended by this. She saw it as, how dare you go to others to speak about how you feel when you have me. Yet when I went to her, I wasn’t taken seriously. There was a time when my mom went to Best Buy so she can control my baby brother’s screen time on his device through her phone. Somehow all my messages and past messages ended up on her phone instead, and she sat and read everything so all my feelings, all my secrets, everything I had to change or hide to keep my mom happy, was out in the open. My mother confronted me about it and told me I was a liar and was doing this for attention. I was back to square one, a liar. She didn’t add the “like your father” part, but I could feel it in my heart. Ever since then, sharing my feelings has been terrifying. Sharing your feelings is like trying to tell someone they have an ugly baby. Do you know how hard it is to tell someone they have an ugly baby? They’ll ask, “Isn’t he the cutest?” And you’ll say “Yeah…” when in reality you're praying they never feed that thing after midnight. Don’t ask me about my feelings after midnight because the conversation can go from “My favorite color is blue” to “She lost both of her legs” real quick. My relationship with my mother has always been strange. The only way I can explain it is as having a ride or die who is also a bomb. My mother, in some areas, is my safe place. When all else fails I know I can go to her and feel safe.
My mother cares for me on levels she doesn’t even have to and expresses it every day. When I’m bored, I can sit on her lap while she keeps me company. If I’m in trouble the, second there’s a hint of something wrong she’s there to defend my honor. She spoils me, she loves me and never lets me forget it. My mom is a warrior who fights to defend her people and anyone who dares to disrespect it. She is the hand that guides me, the umbrella protecting me from the rain, and my biggest supporter. Yet depending on the subject, which is usually my mental health, that same sword that was shielding me from the harsh and cruel light has now just cut me down once again. There was an incident, by incident I mean during sophomore year one of my suicide attempts ended with the police coming to my house and CPS eventually showing up. To sum this up, my mother lied to the lady about my depression and self-harm despite all the outbursts and basic cries for help I’ve been having all my life. She got her to laugh in my face and write me off on her clipboard as “an over-dramatic teen looking for attention.” And to add insult to injury, the CPS lady found out I was bisexual through my guidance counselor and as she was out the door to leave, she outed me to my mother. So here I was, a problem teen, with terrible grades from middle school, depressed with nothing to be depressed about, and I liked girls and guys. So now I’m problematic and greedy. The way I feel about CPS is the same way Ice Cube feels about the police in Straight Out of Compton, and we all know his most iconic and overused line. “F*** CPS coming straight from a Middle school…” Speaking of middle school, I was a mess, I mean a mess. Feelings about myself were everywhere, anxiety was at its highest, and girls are looking better than usual. In high school, I’m a functioning mess but I make it look sexy. During my first year of high school, I immediately got into Drama. It was always something I wanted to try. So, in eighth grade, I signed up to take Drama 1 in 9th and I absolutely fell in love and started doing plays two weeks later. Ever since I’ve performed three plays, practiced five, and done one musical. With acting I could feel emotions I wasn’t allowed to feel. I could go on stage and feel these things that I couldn’t show under the guise of these characters. I could finally take off my mask of comedy and throw away that God-forsaken smile. I rehearsed a play that we, unfortunately, didn’t get to preformed called “It’s a Wonderful Life” I ended up with the role of the Angel Joe. Watching George Bailey go through the struggles that he faced and persevere in the end, even when it wasn’t always ideal, the fact that he made it work and still managed to find happiness in settling made me realize it’s okay to be okay where I am right now. It might not be 100% what I want but I was good, and I was safe. I then went on to play a little girl named Belen in the play “Anonymous”. She was a girl being led to a safe place by the ghost of her father.
Both her parent’s dead, far away from home in an unknown land, scared. Belen taught me to keep moving forward even in times of desperation and fear. Despite my love for theatre, there were times when things could get frustrating or repetitive. For example, the time I got typecast as a mom. I did a scene where I played a mom a little too well and the next thing you know, that’s all anyone ever wanted me for. It was as if everyone else was Erykah Badu and all she ever called was Tyrone, but I wasn’t Tyrone, I was his mother. It was so frustrating, I wanted to be Tyrone. I could be a good Tyrone, well if Tyrone had braided pigtails and lip gloss glossier shinier than a brand-new microwave. I couldn’t even be the aunt, I couldn’t be Tyrone, I had to be the mom. I would have even been the dog if they let me. I’d make a good dog too, all you got to do is put on your deep voice, and I’m talking Ying Yang Twins deep. Not let me whisper in your ear deep, but deep. They could ask me questions and I’ll I have to do is say the word woof. “What is it, girl?” “Woof.” “Sally’s trapped in the well!” “No, the house is on fire woof! It’s too late for Sally, she’s been down that thing since last week, Woof.” “You want the ball girl?” “Woof.” Do you want it? You want the ball girl, go fetch! Haha just kidding the balls right here.” “I pity the fool who would do that again. Woof.” Someone’s going to proofread this essay for me and try to ask me if I’m okay, and one of two things will happen. I will either look them in the eyes as a spotlight shines down on us and say “Eu tu” as I watch them stab me twenty-three times like Caesar. Or I will cry. I will lay down face first on the ground and ugly sob. Absorbing the tears back in and releasing them out, like SpongeBob. Even though acting gave me a better chance to handle my feelings, the real question is. Have I overcome my depression? Excuse me while I press play on my loud and highly ironic laugh track. I haven’t overcome my depression, but I’ve overcome my toxic mindset. With the mindset that you’ll never amount to anything it's hard to strive for anything. Acting hasn’t cured my depression, but it let out some of the internal pain. Every day I’m slowly overcoming something, some days I’m back to where I started but I get back up again. Every day I overcome the challenges I’ve set for myself because, at the end of the day, I am my biggest oppressor and the only one stopping me from greatness is me.
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