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Fighting Depression as an African

A tiny boat bobbing up and down in a raging vast ocean. The licking waves slaps the belly of the boat and it capsizes The ocean is relentless, a wave engulfs the little boat tearing it into half. It begins to slowly sink into the dark under world. Drawn to the bottom by an over powering force. Unable to rise to the surface, sinking, sinking and sinking. Swallowed into the cold wet darkness. Despondent, dejected and hopeless.
Depression. A condition of mental disturbance characterized by such feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy. These feelings to a greater degree are a drive force to suicide, lack of energy and interest in life. Difficulty in maintaining concentration and human interaction. I would know. I was once that little bobbing boat. Wallowing in dark thoughts, sinking in a black hole of self pity, heart ache and sadness. The most difficult time of my life when I had a miscarriage. The ordeal was horrific The Portal to Satan’s Lair I am quite familiar with the road to hell. I lost my baby under harsh conditions of a third world country health care system. The aftermath almost killed me.
I sunk into depression for almost a year and nobody knew. I hid it so well from friends and family. As Africans, depression is considered as being weak. I remember after the whole ordeal someone asked me if I was okay. I told them physically I had recovered but emotionally devastated. They said what was important was my physical health and I will get over the rest. Wow. I never received post miscarriage counselling. Apparently my mental well being was not important. I mean they put me in the baby weighing room soon after my miscarriage. So I watched as they brought every new born for weighing albeit, I had lost mine within the same day. I cried every day for almost a year. I had no-one to talk to, after all nobody knew what I was going through. I wrote several suicide notes and toyed around with a few creative ways of offing myself. Life was not worth living, I was haunted by memories of my baby cradled in my arms. Everything was bleak, all black and white. In public I pretended to be all happy and smiles. Alone at home I would literally spend the whole day crying.
African women are expected to be strong. We don’t crumble under such millennial white people conditions as depression. Look we are taught to endure abusive cheating husbands, to be the pillars of our homes even as going as far as mutilating our genitals to please men. Our culture is so patriarchally driven that women teach their daughters to further perpetuate this crippling system of society . Crying over a miscarriage is petty and weak. Hence I had to wince several times at the insensitiveness of my people. Someone went on to ask, ” Hey that baby you lost, was it a boy or girl?”, another, ” Are you going to name your baby after your miscarried child?” A healing wound that is constantly peeled and bleeds anew. Hello guys, I am trying to get through this, can you not remind me of the worst time of my life? That would be great.
I stopped interacting with people, family and friends. I was withdrawn and could not stand crowds or public places. Although I pretended to be fine, If anyone bothered to pay attention there were tell tale signs of depression. Someone told me not to cry in the presence of my husband because I would pull him down in my misery and drive him away. He never knew. I started smoking. 5 cigarettes a day turned to an entire box a day. Somehow I could deal better. There is a time it got so bad that I emptied the drug cabinet and sat on my bed sobbing hysterically. I cried at how my life had come to an end. I was going to die. Those days there was an Econet free Twitter promo. I had no credit to call anyone so I reached out on Twitter. I tweeted ” Somebody help me. Please call me on this number immediately” I don’t know her but she called me,I was a mess, crying on the phone, I told her I was depressed and about to kill myself. I was 4 months pregnant and I had taken a good amount of chlophernamine tablets. She consoled me, told me it was okay and sent me credit to call for help. She kept checking on me. A stranger from Twitter saved my life. She said she will be praying for me. I just know her Twitter handle @lolo_sav. Thats her in the below image. The angel that saved my life.
@Lolo_sav
This piece is not a pity party attraction story. It is how we as Africans should take mental well being seriously. To be able to check on people especially those who have gone through traumatic incidents. Telling someone to pray about it and moving on with business as usual is unhelpful. I am a christian but there are down trodden moments where prayer doesn’t even suffice as a solution. Rather pray with them, encourage them, be patient and yes black people its okay for someone to break down. Do not judge them but be there for them. My entire pregnancy with Malik was terrifying because I was afraid of losing him. I had to stop smoking, went for counselling for the sake of my baby. I realised I had to live, my baby had to live and although I battled with depression I knew I had to live! Africans perceive suicide as stupid and selfish. In our Shona culture, if a person commits suicide they beat up the corpse with sticks as punishment. Some don’t even hold funerals because they don’t deserve it. Such a stoic and insensitive culture drives more suicide statistics because people suffer in silence. A people that tortures a soul by beating up its corpse. Depression is real by the time a person commits suicide, they would have been long dead.
Malik saved me. The day I held him in my arms is the day the face of God shone in my life. Its the day I resurfaced and reached the shores. The birth of Malik was the day break after a long dark night. Let us pay attention to our loved ones, they maybe going through hell and fighting demons unknown to us. They may give subtle hints or reach out in a pseudo manner. Let us be alert. Depression is not a sign of weakness or shameful. It is a real condition.
Zimbabwe suicide hotlines
Source:https://africanentertainment.info/fighting-depression-as-an-african/