A Monologue from No One

Greetings, souls!

So…this post will be a little darker than usual because it’s about a very intense subject: mental health. Not only mental health though, but mental health in the black community…among black women.

I realized from dealing with my own seizure disorder and brain issues, which really effect your entire mentality, that nothing going on with the brain is really addressed in the African American community.

Every time I visit the neurologist, I have to complete a survey that has questions like “Have you had any sudden emotional outbursts?” or “Have you had any thoughts of suicide?”

I have to do this EVERY. TIME.

That’s how common it is and how prone I am to these things.

I was watching “Being Mary Jane” (such great topics on that show!) and one of the leading female characters committed suicide. She had issues that she was dealing with from her past and had tried getting help, but life still became overwhelming for her.

This is more common than we realize.

A suicidal person never completely rids themselves of those thoughts.

We can tell someone they “just need to go to church” but thoughts of suicide mean they also need other methods of coping.

We have to look at the people in our respective communities and encourage them to feel comfortable enough to talk about their problems and not put on a front like everything is ok. Depression is real. Mental illness is real. Suicide is real.

To any of my friends/ readers who have considered suicide, you are valuable and each one of you has something to bring to this world. Just hold on to life.

In honor of lives lost to suicide, I wrote a monologue from the perspective of someone who has attempted suicide in the past and is talking to God as she tries once more:


Dear God, I hate it. 

A few times I hated being Black.

A few times I hated being a woman.

A hundred out of a hundred times I hated when I told people my story and I would get that sad head tilt and soft change of tone. 

Dear God…I. HATE. IT.

Yes, I was raped when I was 8 years old, but I mean…it’s basically a right of passage these days, huh?

My father was absent, my mother was an alcoholic, blah blah blah…

I hate the pity more than my past.

You know that feeling when you’re so angry that you start crying? 

I hate that too. 

I don’t want them to think I care. Those tears are only there because I let them tap into the vessel of my emotions and the strongest one was able to seep out. 


I love You, God, but I hate it.

Like..like..those people that are so intent on loving you so they have someone to hurt.

…or those people you’re so intent on hurting but they keep giving you love.

I hate them too.

You know what else I hate?


I took SEVEN sleeping pills. SEVEN. Yet I survived. 

I hate ropes. 

I hate the manufacturer of whatever BS brand I bought because as soon as the chair tipped over, the damn thing snapped and I fell to the floor. 

Now I’m still here with a broken arm and a huge cast.

I hate that too. 

And guns, God? Really? You might as well take all those back. 

Mine jammed twice. 

I hate it, God. I hate it all. 

Or how about when I get dressed and change my hair but he doesn’t notice? 

Or how I grew up hating my body because I was told to be ashamed of it, but now when I feel comfortable showing a thigh here or a breast there, I’m a whore “thirst-trapping”. 


Why must you put me in a world of things I hate?

I don’t want to have a son because someone make look at him as a thug because he is black and hate him too. 

Why am I here? 

“Black people don’t go to therapy. Black people go to church”, they say.

I hate that I can’t openly say I do both.

I hate that I hide behind false smiles everyday to maintain my job. I hate that everyone looks to me for advice when I don’t even know what the hell my next move in life is.

I hate that I hate everything. 

I also hate that I can hardly see my screen as I type this in the darkness, hoping for more love in the next lifetime. 

I hate that I will be doing this to someone and forcing them to live with regret because of how much I hated this life. 

I hate that as I step off this curb, I will never truly know if you got this message.

Dear God, I love You. But I hate this.



Stay blessed and stay living, loves.

3 thoughts on “A Monologue from No One

  1. This has more truth to it than some people realize. Mental health is totally overlooked and disregarded in the black community – just as you said. Do you think it has something to do with us wanting to keep our issues and personal matters private? Depression is so rampant in our community and yet we immediately shut people down who try to reach out for help as being overdramatic. I forgot which music artist (Waka Flaka or Future) but one of them has some very depressing lyrics that suggest a shaky mental state. Do you know which it is?

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