The Diagnosis.

Written on September 23, 2020, revised on May 18, 2021 — Winner of the 2021 Maryland Public Television Ernest Hemingway Writing Competition

One year ago — almost to the day — I sat in a psychiatrist’s office and filled out paperwork I hardly understood and didn’t care to read in its entirety. I prayed that I was there for nothing. I prayed that all the nuggets of evidence I had collected that pointed to something would turn out to be fool’s gold. I prayed that the box checked on my psychiatric referral sheet would be unchecked. I’ve always hated my tendency to overthink, but in this moment I wanted nothing more than to be an over-thinker.

            So, why are you here today?

I gave the psychiatrist my usual spiel. The one I had documented on Twitter, the one I gave my mother, the one I gave my primary care physician nearly three months prior. I talked frankly about my darkest moments and my lows that felt like highs. I mentioned the night I tried to kill myself in passing so as to not cause her any worry or concern and to tell my own body that this isn’t worth crying over. Not here. Not now.

            “And how did you try to kill yourself?”

I paused. I wasn’t expecting that question. I had never recounted that night in its entirety with all its context — not even to myself. Especially not to myself… As I started to speak again, I thanked God for the mask that hid my quivering lip. I hate crying in front of people. But as my vision blurred, I realized that my eyes had betrayed me.

            “Why are you crying?”

            Because it still hurts.

I sat there blotting away all evidence of the betrayal as the psychiatrist looked over the forms that tallied my symptoms. Finally, she looked up at me and gave me the diagnosis in a calm, measured manner — as if there was a way to break this kind of news gently.

            Have you ever been afraid of your own mind? 

I broke the news to my father on the ride home. The silence that followed was heavy. The space between us grew with grief, confusion, and fear. And it was collapsed with a simple question:

            “So that’s what it is?”

            “Yes.”

Neither of us could look the other in the eyes.

Over the next three days I pondered over what the diagnosis meant. I refused to call it by its name. I cried. And I laughed. And then I grieved a version of myself I had never met — one who was less traumatized, less damaged. I wondered if they would also be here with this diagnosis.

Buried memories began to resurface — memories that made me want to peel my skin layer by layer all the way down to my bones. No shower could make this prison I lived in feel clean. 

Side effects disrupted my days. My appetite was nonexistent. I crashed in the middle of the day to wake up three hours later dazed and confused. I fell asleep faster at night, but I could never stay asleep. I saw more sunrises after starting on that medication than I ever had in my twenty-one years of life.

I poured myself into projects; I rearranged my room to make it my “safe haven.” I became a devoted plant parent and found comfort in puttering around my room to check on my succulents, lilies, and vines. I drowned out the noise in my head with music in a language I do not speak in an effort to forget again. An effort to make this body feel like a safe and livable space again.

I pondered on the perception of this diagnosis. It’s not one that the online mental health advocates like to talk about. It’s not one that regular people like to talk about. It is raw. It is fierce. It cannot and will not be made small to be wrapped up in pretty packaging. 

I looked over old pieces I had written and saw the blood red letters sprawled out on the walls. I thought about the implications of this disease. Stories of Black people being brutalized or killed during wellness checks flooded my memory. I closed the apps.            

            What does it mean to be a queer Black person living with mental illness?

I had lived in fear of my own mind for years and, now that I had those words to piece together why I was so afraid, I feared what everyone else would think. I sit here a year later writing this piece and, I’ll be honest, I’m still afraid. I stutter every time I try to name this demon. To be bipolar and to be queer and to be Black and to still find joy in this life is to live in constant opposition of what the world tells you your life is supposed to be—it is finding treasure in treachery and making peace with your pain.