My Friend, Shannon Blackmon, Was Murdered
This weekend, I found out that a friend, Shannon Blackmon, was murdered.
"Suthrn," as I came to know her before I got to know her as "Shannon," was energetic, funny as all out get out, and so beautiful. She had everything going for her. She had this effervescent personality; Shannon could match and even go above and beyond me in telling a funny story and keeping the energy going. She was so passionate about what she believed in and she fought like a warrior. Our favorite thing was talking about "True Blood." She went from being a super fan to hating it like it was a walking sin.That show going off was the worst thing that happened to us. We had nothing else to hate, so she stopped posting about it.
What we all failed to realize that the end of the series seemed to usher in a dark cloud that didn't come to its unspeakable conclusion until December 4th, when I found out that she had been murdered.
Shannon fell off the grid. She stopped coming to my forum, and her Facebook postings stopped. Some would reach her from time to time, but she always indicated that she was okay. Those who met her talked about what a sweetheart she was. I would send birthday greetings to her, then PMs, and wonder why she never responded. She was still around; just on the DL. Let me say that this isn't unusual. People take sabbaticals from life on occasion; some more than others. Most of the time, you check in and your friend/loved one will respond. Shannon never did; not even on her birthday.
The other night changed the game. Joycelyn posted that Shannon was gone from this Earth. I was trying to absorb the truth of it; another beautiful friend gone too soon. First Angel Ballard, then Sabrina Leon Davis, and then an acquaintance, Bonnie Jackson, passed away. Shannon Blackmon has joined them in death. However, unlike Angel and Bonnie, who died of cancer, and Sabrina, who died of a pulmonary embolism, Shannon was murdered.
It wasn't at the hands of another human being stalking in the dead of night; Shannon was murdered by suicide. We only learned on this day that she was depressed, and the darkness had overtaken her.
I ran the gamut of emotions. I had only begun talking about my depression a little more than a year ago, but she never saw my postings or contacted me. I had spoken to her over the phone, but the depression had never come up. You see, one of my stupid cousins hacked into my Facebook account and posted that I wanted to kill myself. Many of my friends reached out to me, only to find out that I was bewildered as to what was happening. Shannon called me to make sure I was okay. By then, I was in the depths of my depression and was suppressing it without knowing it. I've never had the thought to kill myself, but still I was silent about what was going on in my life. After I felt more comfortable with it, I began blogging, posting, and tweeting about it. It was therapeutic for me, and I had a great therapist who helped me dig deep down and work on the underlying issues that caused me to have these breathtaking, spiraling psychotic breaks. I would love to say that I've been episode-free, but the two breaks I had this year were handled without me going to extremes. I have to say that I'm more focused than I've been in a long time.
Shannon never gave an indication of her depression, and to be honest with you, I've been so busy talking about it that I wasn't looking at my friends and family to see what was going on with them. It's a sneaky killer - you become 007 about hiding your pain. You smile, laugh, you're the center of attention and the life of the party. How would anyone know that your life is spiraling out of control?
Most people have this view of suicidal people who are walking around in all black, goth makeup, giving away their prized possessions, and moaning about how utterly alone they are. The truth is, most who are genuinely depressed won't do that. We black women have become adept at the deception game. We wear this mask of invincibility; like we can just whip out these shiny boots, matching skirt and bracelets and just fly about, kicking ass and taking names all the while getting the children to school, keeping the house in check, going to work, taking care of the meals, after school activities, clubs, hosting play dates, and at the end of day, our men are upstairs in those red silk boxers waiting to get his quality time. Anything else makes us look weak, and we just can't abide by that.
How overwhelming is all of this? I'm actually surprised that of all of the groups that have committed mass killings, we aren't among them, but we're so gosh darn angry, right?
The fact is, the Black Superwoman is a myth. She doesn't exist. It's hard living the life of a black woman in this new millennium, as it was in previous decades. Nothing much has really changed; we just make more money, have bigger responsibilities, more expensive things, and without anyone making sure that we're okay. All of this in a society that still treats like third class citizens and worse - out of control snarling attitude having monsters.
Hence, the "Angry Black Woman."
Yes, this stereotype is the worst of them all. It implies that we just walk around ready to just bite the head off of everybody for no reason whatsoever. Anything we say, do, or imply any type of independence is viewed by society, and indeed by our own, as an "attitude problem." I can't even count the number of times I caught the Angry Black Woman tag.
Here's the thing: The anger of black woman probably stems from depression. We just don't understand that this is what's happening to us. At the height of my depression, I was so angry at those who were trying to destroy me, and those of authority who failed me that I would walk around with this dead expression. It took a doctor to properly diagnose me and for me to find it in myself to fight my way out of it. In the process, I learned to focus better and take better care to make sure I don't descend into a pit of despair that I wouldn't be able to dig myself out of. I learned that I can't fix other people or their ugly hearts; I have to take care of myself. Once I realized that, I knew that I would be alright. My previous therapist, Karen, was the best! I don't see her now - I have another one since she moved out of network, but I'm getting to know Angela pretty well.
I learned that it's okay to be scared, to not have all the answers, and not to take the weight of the world on my shoulders. A hectic life can be as overwhelming as one that isn't. It's okay to ask for help and it's okay to admit that I'm not perfect and have to have everything just right. I learned that my job history was an indicator of my depression; I would quit a job every 4 to 5 years. I thought it was boredom but I learned that it was because there would be some kind of issue within the network and instead of facing it, I was overwhelmed by the situation, so it was easier to walk away and let someone else deal with it. My supervisor is a misogynistic idiot? Fine, I quit. My co-workers are lazy, ugly, slovenly, and only get by with kissing up and brown nosing? Whatever, I'm outie. I avoid friendships with people who are not those that I grew up with. It's not that I'm not an affable person, but I don't want anyone to see how broken I am, and it would take too much time to decompress all that is going on in my head. My ABC's accept the faults and defects in me, but I feel like I have to maintain a positive image around others, so I never let my guard down.
Let me throw in that in the work place, you're exempt from this - you simply can't trust someone at work to not stab you in the back and then ask you, "girl, what happened?" I'll give you a by for that one.
On the whole, we generally keep depression to ourselves, mainly because we don't recognize it when we see it until it overwhelms us, and we just don't see an end to the pain. By then, it's too late. According to SPRC.com, the sad facts of suicide indicates that blacks who reported suicidal thoughts or attempts were less likely than Whites to seek or receive psychiatric services. The percentage of black adults who did not seek or receive any psychiatric services in the year prior to having suicidal thoughts is 59%. Attempted suicide rounded out at 57%. According to the NYTimes, a study published by Journal of American Medical Association (JAMA) Pediatrics found that the suicide rates of black children ages 5 - 11 has risen from 1.36 2.54 per one million children. The suicide rate of white children is 1.14.
These are our children. OUR CHILDREN!!!
We have to do something. We can't just sit back and watch our people be killed by this silent but deadly predator. This stereotype that black people can't get depressed will kill us. I wish there was a quick fix to this, but there isn't. I've been told that I need to pray, and when I don't hear an answer, it's because I wasn't listening. That's no way to help a depressed person. "So, I'm not hearing a voice in my head, so therefore I should kill myself? But if I do hear a voice, aren't I just bug nutty then a rogue lizard in the hot sand?"
Huh?
I'm not a health care profession. I never said that I was. I've only spoken of my own experiences in dealing with mental health. My only desire is to help others; not preaching to them what's wrong with them and how they need to straighten up and fly right. I'll listen to you, hold your hand, and help you get in touch with a mental health specialist who can take you to the next step. It's not weakness to ask for help. Getting help is the key, and most employers have wellness programs, and in some cases, help is free. If you want to be anonymous, Suicide Hotline is always available. I haven't had thoughts like this, but some nights I would wake up and need to talk. They never shut me down or hung up on me. They just gave me an ear to talk, and it was so helpful. I'm grateful for its existence.
Here are my truths: My name is Nila N. Brown. I'm 50 years old. I work as an analyst in a fortune 500 company. I've traveled extensively for my company promoting their products. I have a 28 year old daughter. I have friends, family, acquaintances who love, care and uplift me everyday. I have a burgeoning career as a Black Speculative Fiction author.
Most people have this view of suicidal people who are walking around in all black, goth makeup, giving away their prized possessions, and moaning about how utterly alone they are. The truth is, most who are genuinely depressed won't do that. We black women have become adept at the deception game. We wear this mask of invincibility; like we can just whip out these shiny boots, matching skirt and bracelets and just fly about, kicking ass and taking names all the while getting the children to school, keeping the house in check, going to work, taking care of the meals, after school activities, clubs, hosting play dates, and at the end of day, our men are upstairs in those red silk boxers waiting to get his quality time. Anything else makes us look weak, and we just can't abide by that.
How overwhelming is all of this? I'm actually surprised that of all of the groups that have committed mass killings, we aren't among them, but we're so gosh darn angry, right?
The fact is, the Black Superwoman is a myth. She doesn't exist. It's hard living the life of a black woman in this new millennium, as it was in previous decades. Nothing much has really changed; we just make more money, have bigger responsibilities, more expensive things, and without anyone making sure that we're okay. All of this in a society that still treats like third class citizens and worse - out of control snarling attitude having monsters.
Hence, the "Angry Black Woman."
Yes, this stereotype is the worst of them all. It implies that we just walk around ready to just bite the head off of everybody for no reason whatsoever. Anything we say, do, or imply any type of independence is viewed by society, and indeed by our own, as an "attitude problem." I can't even count the number of times I caught the Angry Black Woman tag.
Here's the thing: The anger of black woman probably stems from depression. We just don't understand that this is what's happening to us. At the height of my depression, I was so angry at those who were trying to destroy me, and those of authority who failed me that I would walk around with this dead expression. It took a doctor to properly diagnose me and for me to find it in myself to fight my way out of it. In the process, I learned to focus better and take better care to make sure I don't descend into a pit of despair that I wouldn't be able to dig myself out of. I learned that I can't fix other people or their ugly hearts; I have to take care of myself. Once I realized that, I knew that I would be alright. My previous therapist, Karen, was the best! I don't see her now - I have another one since she moved out of network, but I'm getting to know Angela pretty well.
I learned that it's okay to be scared, to not have all the answers, and not to take the weight of the world on my shoulders. A hectic life can be as overwhelming as one that isn't. It's okay to ask for help and it's okay to admit that I'm not perfect and have to have everything just right. I learned that my job history was an indicator of my depression; I would quit a job every 4 to 5 years. I thought it was boredom but I learned that it was because there would be some kind of issue within the network and instead of facing it, I was overwhelmed by the situation, so it was easier to walk away and let someone else deal with it. My supervisor is a misogynistic idiot? Fine, I quit. My co-workers are lazy, ugly, slovenly, and only get by with kissing up and brown nosing? Whatever, I'm outie. I avoid friendships with people who are not those that I grew up with. It's not that I'm not an affable person, but I don't want anyone to see how broken I am, and it would take too much time to decompress all that is going on in my head. My ABC's accept the faults and defects in me, but I feel like I have to maintain a positive image around others, so I never let my guard down.
Let me throw in that in the work place, you're exempt from this - you simply can't trust someone at work to not stab you in the back and then ask you, "girl, what happened?" I'll give you a by for that one.
On the whole, we generally keep depression to ourselves, mainly because we don't recognize it when we see it until it overwhelms us, and we just don't see an end to the pain. By then, it's too late. According to SPRC.com, the sad facts of suicide indicates that blacks who reported suicidal thoughts or attempts were less likely than Whites to seek or receive psychiatric services. The percentage of black adults who did not seek or receive any psychiatric services in the year prior to having suicidal thoughts is 59%. Attempted suicide rounded out at 57%. According to the NYTimes, a study published by Journal of American Medical Association (JAMA) Pediatrics found that the suicide rates of black children ages 5 - 11 has risen from 1.36 2.54 per one million children. The suicide rate of white children is 1.14.
These are our children. OUR CHILDREN!!!
We have to do something. We can't just sit back and watch our people be killed by this silent but deadly predator. This stereotype that black people can't get depressed will kill us. I wish there was a quick fix to this, but there isn't. I've been told that I need to pray, and when I don't hear an answer, it's because I wasn't listening. That's no way to help a depressed person. "So, I'm not hearing a voice in my head, so therefore I should kill myself? But if I do hear a voice, aren't I just bug nutty then a rogue lizard in the hot sand?"
Huh?
I'm not a health care profession. I never said that I was. I've only spoken of my own experiences in dealing with mental health. My only desire is to help others; not preaching to them what's wrong with them and how they need to straighten up and fly right. I'll listen to you, hold your hand, and help you get in touch with a mental health specialist who can take you to the next step. It's not weakness to ask for help. Getting help is the key, and most employers have wellness programs, and in some cases, help is free. If you want to be anonymous, Suicide Hotline is always available. I haven't had thoughts like this, but some nights I would wake up and need to talk. They never shut me down or hung up on me. They just gave me an ear to talk, and it was so helpful. I'm grateful for its existence.
Here are my truths: My name is Nila N. Brown. I'm 50 years old. I work as an analyst in a fortune 500 company. I've traveled extensively for my company promoting their products. I have a 28 year old daughter. I have friends, family, acquaintances who love, care and uplift me everyday. I have a burgeoning career as a Black Speculative Fiction author.
I am a Black Woman who suffers from depression.
The fact is, I'll never be cured of it, but I have everything to live for and I live life to the fullest. I'm thankful to wake up everyday, and strive to do better than the day before. I feel this way because I recognized that I was spiraling out of control and needed help. In doing so, I avoided a killer; one who took my friend Shannon into the darkness and away from those who love her so much. I ache for them because they're left without answers and may guilty feelings that they should have known, and I pray that they don't fall into that thinking. The only person who could have helped Shannon was Shannon herself. She couldn't find the light, and there won't be a day that goes by that I won't think about this. It's disheartening, but it's the reality of living with depression and being murdered by suicide.
Shannon's killer will not go unanswered.
((((((((((((((((Shannon)))))))))))))))) Oh, for the chance to speak to you one more time so I could tell you that I love you and that I'm here and understand. I know how exhausted you were, and I'm torn that I couldn't reach you. I hope that your eternal rest is bliss and that you will find the peace that eluded you on this Earth. I hope to see you in the next life.
Nila
((((((((((((((((Shannon)))))))))))))))) Oh, for the chance to speak to you one more time so I could tell you that I love you and that I'm here and understand. I know how exhausted you were, and I'm torn that I couldn't reach you. I hope that your eternal rest is bliss and that you will find the peace that eluded you on this Earth. I hope to see you in the next life.
Nila
Comments
Post a Comment