Years before I knew I could even have children, my mother called me a name I’d heard many times growing up. Crybaby. It was during a nasty argument where I’d decided to open up about my feelings but was unable to express myself. I stammered through hyperventilating breaths. My body boiled, and I wasn’t so much as mad, but hysterical. I panted and kept saying, “Come on, Ma. Come on, Ma,” a mantra pleading for understanding. She finally stopped me, called me a crybaby, and said, “You sound like a white woman.”
I imagine she saw me as some frantic white lady, head shaking, a mass of hair whipping my face, screaming with black mascara bleeding down my cheeks. My mother’s words slapped the nonsense out of me, reminded me of that board called “pride” strapped to my back — to most black women’s backs — that helps me to sit up when I feel like slouching.
These women didn’t tell me about postpartum depression, never mentioned the baby blues. They didn’t warn me about the anxiety, insomnia, or evil thoughts. They didn’t tell me how to get over it or offered an ear. My worries or well-being wasn’t important, and really, no one talks about mental instability in the black community. The idea of seeking treatment never crossed my mind. I wasn’t some hysterical white woman with the privilege to lie in bed for days crippled by my emotions. There was nothing wrong with me, and besides, black people don’t do therapy.