Thinking Kinky : The Nappy Haired Diva

Robin Williams didn't commit suicide. Depression murdered him. That's how I view it. I dislike when people say suicide. It's almost as if people immediately discount the significance of the loss because the death was self-inflicted. I can assure you that depression drives people to off themselves. For the sake of being technical, yes killing yourself is suicide but please do this for me: think of a time you were desperate. I don't care if it was to receive attention from that person you were madly in love with or when you stole that money, or told that lie, or took them back. Photo by  Mike Wilson  on  Unsplash It was a moment of desperation. Were you in control? Perhaps. Did it feel like it? No. Welcome to the lives of the depressed. I often feel like a shell that is housing a cloud of sadness within me. I don't get to wear all black and sit in art galleries smoking slim cigarettes discussing dark abstract art. I'm not emo chic. I gain weight and look li...

Photo by  Priscilla Du Preez  on  Unsplash You would think I would have been more creative the second time I tried to die. I wasn't. I was a single mother with a very young toddler and I couldn't figure out how to be a very young twenty-something, a mom, a college drop out, and an adult who was aspiring to build a career instead of just having a job. I was waitressing and my tips weren't enough to make the rent for my studio apartment. My daughter was always at her father's parents home because I was working nearly 53 hours a week. Despite my hard work, I never had enough money. I dropped about 15lbs and everyone was complimenting me but I was starving. I would feed my daughter and pray she would be full so I could eat whatever she left over. I didn't care if it was cold Farina or chewed up and spat out chicken and veggies. I needed to eat and I was broke. Realizing that I was working for my daughter but hardly saw her started to wear on me. It didn't hel...

Photo by  Ian Espinosa  on  Unsplash I tried to die. I think I was 18 when I had my first crisis. A "crisis" is the term used to describe when the depression has consumed its sufferer to the point of debilitation or suicide. I was 18, and I failed my road test for the second time. For some reason, I felt completely defeated and the most logical solution to escape the pain and hopelessness that consumed me was death. So I took at least 8 ibuprofen and chugged some Trinidadian rum that my mother stowed away for holiday cake making. I drafted a sorrowful letter to my mother, brother, sister and nephew telling them that I loved them, but the pain was far too unbearable to endure for any length of time. I asked God for forgiveness. I placed the letter under my pillow and went to nap only, I wasn't very tired. Had I not taken enough? My sister was a nurse. Maybe I needed to adjust my intake according to my weight. Rummaging through the cupboards, I searched for any OTC p...