No Shame Day

Today, I'm doing something similar, but different...tread lightly, it's under constant revision...

Please take a moment to visit and support my friend's website http://thesiweproject.org/. She has the courage of a million survivors, the brilliance of a million stars and the love of a million hearts...and she is one in a million! (And I love her!) Because of her courage and professionalism, there is a place for us to gather as a community of fighters and supporters. There is a place where we can be ourselves with no shame. Thank you to all who have helped me along the way and my heart goes out to all who have been touched by mental illness of any form.


No Shame Day

July 2, 2012

My name is Carla Jones and I have no shame.

I am a teacher, preacher, mother, sister, writer, personal chef, caregiver and woman who loves fiercely…and I have no shame about my diagnosis of and struggle with clinical depression.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression more years ago than I care to remember. (Or perhaps I’ve lied about my age for so long that I can no longer do the math accurately.)  When I was a teenager, I had what can graciously be called mood swings but it wasn’t until I found myself crying inconsolably and self-medicating for an undiagnosed illness that I realized that this was not just typical teenage moodiness.

Part of my story includes a memory of relentless and incurable anger coupled with a string of failed relationships. It wasn’t until a failed relationship led me to attempt to overdose on pain medication– which I quickly regretted and attempted to undo by calling 911 and inducing vomiting – that I realized that I was losing the battle. The mandated ‘pre-release from the hospital therapy’ was telling. The unprepared white woman looked at a writing sample and said, “Oh, you’re quite angry aren’t you?” In the moment that I wanted to return home and show her just how angry I was, I realized that if I did not get real help soon, I would destroy either myself or someone else…because I was not merely angry, I was deeply depressed yet still able to finish college and secure a great job and manage my multiple roles. 

I found the right therapist – a compassionate, yet tough black man whose office was in a lovely suburban setting that allowed me the simple pleasures of free parking and a stroll down “Main Street” as part of my therapy. He held my feet to the fire and never wasted my time or copay.  Rather, he asked me what was at the root of all of this anger. He helped me to face the demons of the past and set goals to keep them (the demons) out of my future... or at least at a distance. It would be years before I would seek him out again, only to find that he had moved on but he referred me to another man who would also work to keep me here.

I met Dr. L. when I was in my last year of seminary and the lights grew dim. I was unable to get off of the couch after taking my daughter to daycare. I was a mess but I was able to smile at least one hour of the day, so most of my friends were kept at bay. I was always angry or moved to tears in class or chapel, so my outward expressions did not draw any attention. Until the day I met J. She called me out on my stuff one day and I was shocked. I believe that’s what we mean when we say, “Game recognize Game!” She saw in me what she saw in the mirror. Again, I returned to a regimen of regular therapy sessions and the demon was again held off for a while.

The reason I speak publicly about my illness is that I managed to hide it so well for so long. My friends accepted me for who I was – even if that meant quirky highs and lows.
Even when I pretended that being an only child was the reason why I preferred solitude.
Even when I would weep over things that seemed so insignificant.
I was a single parent.
I held a job while in grad school.
I was the go-to girl who took care of everyone else, so no one suspected anything or if they did, no one dared to say anything, because black folk don’t talk about that stuff…especially those of us who are God fearing, bible thumping, Jesus loving Christians preparing to be someone’s pastor. 
I quietly took medication and continued therapy until we managed to manage the illness for just a little while longer.

Two years ago…the demon returned with brand new superpowers. The darkness crept in like a summer storm. It was unexpected and violent. I put my affairs in order and in a sort of out of body experience, attempted to write the ending to my story. (Thank God for rewrites and edits!)
I survived that storm.
I wrote about that storm.
I bravely blogged that storm and shocked my friends and loved ones.
I did not seek to shock. I sought to educate.
That’s why I write.
I write so that we can stop being shocked and so that we can see the signs and get the needed and available help.
I write and speak about it because if I don’t tell my story, it will appear in some poorly written and largely circumstantial unauthorized posthumous biography.
I tell my story because my story is not unique.
I tell my story so that some little black girl doesn’t spend her life thinking that she is weird or ‘bad’ or just sad.
I tell my story because some people still don’t get it.
I tell my story to keep from cussin' people out when they say, “Cheer up!”
I tell my story because silence almost killed me.
I tell my story for every student who has ever come to me and said, “Miss Jones, I need to talk to you…” 
I tell my story for the woman who wept on my robe after I preached about depression…on “Youth Day.”
I tell my story because it demands telling. 
I tell my story because it is still writing itself.
I tell my story because I have no shame!

My name is Carla Jones and I have NO SHAME! This is my story…