The way the African-American community traditionally handles mental health can cause lives to be lost, and it will continue if we don’t stop and take a deep look.

By J.B. Burrage

Before I start this piece, I want to put out a disclaimer: This article is not about one race or segment against another. I’m not saying that one group’s struggle with Mental illness is worse than the other. I’m also not attacking spirituality, regardless of what anyone believes or does not believe in.

All I’m doing is addressing something that’s sometimes neglected, and I feel that it should be brought to light. While it could come off as critical, I’m only doing this because I care and I would like to see more people step up—besides celebrities.

With that out of the way, let me begin.

I’m an African-American—a Black man—living with a Mental Illness.  My race and ethnicity is no secret; you can see that from my profile photo. I am one of the millions who suffer from it. My personal struggles with bipolar disorder are somewhat different from others, only because of the fact that I am an individual; otherwise, I’m in the same struggle as anyone else who lives with it day to day. But what separates me from others is the community that I’m from.

I’m writing this because lately I have been approached by quite a few Black people from around the country who either suffer from mental illness or have relatives that suffer from it. They all found out about my work from this very site, which is a demonstration of its own of the power and usefulness of this site.

In general, African-Americans are very reluctant to talk about mental illness. It’s something about the stigma and the label; the way we grew up, we looked at people with Mental Health issues as plain “crazy.” It’s almost like it’s a shame on the family to even have someone in our family who suffers from some type of disorder, especially bipolar and schizophrenia.

Have things changes? Somewhat, now as more people are starting to be open about their brain-based disorders. But stigmas are hard to change.

Because life for most of us is already hard—a lot of us come out of poverty—we also have to live with the fact that we must be strong. You think you’re depressed? Get over it, pick yourself up, and keep it going.

In our history, we have been through so much that we don’t have room or time to be weak.

While there’s nothing wrong with being strong—I consider myself a very strong and resilient man—we have our moments of weakness. For that reason, if we’re suffering, we really don’t have anyone to turn to.

Go to therapy? Forget it. Definitely a confirmation that you’re “crazy as hell.” All you need is to go to church and pray. This is where I have to point out again that I’m not attacking spirituality, but I also have to point out that I’m not endorsing any religion.

This is something that I’ve mentioned so many times, but I’m a firm believer that having some kind of spiritual guidance helps in coping…but I don’t believe that it’s the cure all. You can’t tell some of the hardcore and old-fashioned Christians this, as they would probably try to rebuke you.

There was a time when I told someone from the church about my mental illness, and I basically got the “go to church and pray” speech. I left the conversation feeling more hopeless and misunderstood than before I went into it.

If anybody is a follower of any of my work, you would know that a long time ago, I had a very ignorant view of mental illness. To a certain extent, I was nervous to be around people who were living with mental illnesses. When I received my diagnosis, I was in denial and afraid; I didn’t want that label.

I didn’t tell many people for years. Only a few knew what I was going through and how painful it was. Part of that was because I was stubborn and full of pride. I felt I had no one to go to; nowhere to go.

That’s the problem with Black men. I’m noticing more Black women coming out, owning up to their illnesses; and I’m a believer in the Black women being the foundation and backbone of our community.

But what about Black men? We’re too prideful. We’re too embarrassed; something that’s a problem with all of us, but especially so in the African-American community.

We have all of these old stigmas and beliefs. I remember as a child, we were told that Black people don’t take their own lives; only White people do.

That is absolutely not true and further enforces the stigma that won’t allow us to get the help that we need.

We’re taking our lives just as much as any other race or ethnicity, and while these old-fashioned stigmas and beliefs are only a part of the problem, it’s a key component.

While it is true that mental health care across the board doesn’t have as much priority as other segments of health care, and it’s especially true in the African-American community—but the tools are still out there. Help is out there.

But collectively, we won’t use it. Income isn’t always the problem, though it is a factor. It’s our own pride. Our pride as a community is like a poison, and the belief that religion alone is the cure is like taking a little bandage and putting it over a big wound. It’s not the cure, as there is no cure.

But if we break the chains of our centuries-old stigmas and labels, we would realize that we are like a tool in the medical kit for the treatment of our illnesses.

As a community, we need to do better to help each other. As Black men, we need to get the help that will allow us to cope with whatever we’re suffering from. We just need to do better, period.

I was stubborn. I didn’t want anybody to know; I didn’t even want my family to know. My mom only found out because she found my cocktail of medication.

I was reluctant to get help because I looked at it as a sign of weakness. It almost took my life from me. If I didn’t take the steps that I needed to take and ignore all of those negative views, I wouldn’t be here writing this article now.

Everything I’ve said goes for anybody, but I especially need my fellow Black friends to receive this message. Getting help will only help you be a better man—a better person—in the long run. You’re not weak. You’re not alone.