Im Telling the Truth, But I'm Lying (after Bassey Ikpi)
Throughout my entire life, there have been periods, sometimes year-long periods, where I don’t do much reading. No books, no magazines, no newspaper articles- nothing. Usually, those intervals are directly connected to how my mental health is doing at the time. One could argue that it makes sense to read more often when I have my worst mental health days. Getting submerged into a world that isn’t my own does sound like an amazing way to self medicate my depression. However, my flare-ups manifest themselves as an inability to focus on anything for a long period of time - least of all, books. I can not successfully absorb new information when everything in me is exhausted from simply trying to get through each day without succumbing to the sinking void caged between my ribs. It SUCKS. More intensely, it is embarrassing, and it makes me feel like such a fraud. I mean, what kind of writer goes years without reaching the end of a single novel?
I vaguely remember Dr. Brown. He was a tall black man, maybe bald with glasses. His office had a couch in it, and I wondered if I would be asked to lie down. I wasn’t, but I was asked questions about school that I answered with ramblings that may or may not have actually responded to the questions. After 40 minutes of “yes, school is good. I like my class. I don't know why I threw the book in the mud. I don’t know why that kid annoys me.”, I left the room feeling no differently than when I walked in. My mother must have asked me how the session was. I must have said it was fine, though I wasn’t sure how it was supposed to go. I went to see Dr. Brown a few more times after that, not really sharing anything personal with him. He was a complete stranger after all. Lots of shrugs. Lots of mindless, kiddy chatter. I wish someone had explained to me that he was the doctor who could potentially make the beehive in my head less angry, or at the very least, give me a word for it.
In high school, something changed - no, crumbled - inside of me. I didn’t know why I always felt so down all the time. I confided in my friends. I told them that sometimes I don’t want to exist. That life felt too hard a lot of the time. One of my friends gave me a “pep” talk by telling me that other people have it a lot worse than I do. The hole in my stomach was immediately filled with guilt. I didn’t go back to that friend for a pep talk after that. There were days when I just felt...crazy. I didn’t know how else to describe it. My thoughts ricocheted against my skull in a blind panic. One moment I would be in English class, and the next, I am in hopelessness, anxiety, and an overwhelming desire to cease to exist and spare my close friends the roller coaster of emotions that oozed into every conversation I had with them. During my sophomore year, I kept a journal that became a cave to hide the crazy. Whenever I felt the beehive start to hiss inside my head, I scribbled desperately into the pages of the notebook, almost burning holes through to the other side. Sometimes, I would be too tired to climb into the cave completely. I would only poke my head inside for a moment long enough to write one sentence: “no one can help me.”
It was a strange, confusing mess of tension that lived in my shoulders, back, knees, and beneath my skin. I would scratch at my arms trying to rid myself of it. I tugged forcefully at my box braids, almost as if I wanted to rip them from my scalp. I yanked the hair out of my armpits in the bathroom when no one was around. I picked my soft, calcium-deficient toenails from their beds until tiny, red beads of blood rose to the surface. The next day, the toe would throb, making walking difficult, so I would use the excuse to stay in bed. These were my shameful secrets that I knew were proof of my instabilities. I still had no word for them. I knew I needed help, but I didn’t know how or who to ask for it.
Before the end of high school, I had managed to tell my mother that I needed to talk to someone. I wouldn’t give her much information to go on. I feared that my hurricane of unstable emotions would make her feel at fault somehow. I pulled away from her a lot. I spent most of my time in my bedroom with the door closed so that she didn’t see the brokenness of her oldest child. Even after being diagnosed with depression and anxiety by a professional, I still found myself doubting the validity of this mental “illness.” I was taking medication and going to therapy every week, but a part of me still felt like I was crazy. None of my friends had shared similar struggles with me, so for years I felt undoubtedly alone. There were times when my mother was visibly down. I wondered if she too had depression. The only conversations we had about it back then involved phrases like “life can get us down sometimes.” and “ sometimes we just need to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps.” She couldn’t quite understand how impossible it was for me to do that.
A Hero's Memoir
Until a few weeks ago, I had been in that place - that insecure, wordless, slump of blahness that is reflected in the stack of unfinished novels on my bedside desk - until someone I met posted a book recommendation on her social media. Im Telling the Truth but I’m Lying is a series of essays written by Bassey Ikpi, a Nigerian American slam poet in Brooklyn, who reveals her most intimate truths surrounding her battle with bipolar disorder. I ordered the book immediately after I heard her thoughts on the memoir. Very rarely do I hear black people discuss mental health in a way that validates it as something that needs to be addressed. That representation is hella important and potentially life-saving for black people to know that no, you aren’t crazy. It isn’t just in your head, and there are ways (outside of praying) that can help you feel better. I am currently on page 149 of the book, which is much farther than I've gotten in anything in awhile. Bassey Ikpi is so brave in her storytelling. I feel like she is confiding in me with each essay she writes. Sometimes I feel so overwhelmed, I have to take a break from reading. I find so much familiarity with the emotions she describes. Her memories are like a faded carbon copy of my old high school journal entries that frighten me to revisit to this day. I was a different person when my mental illness was a nameless whisper in the back of my throat. I was angry at its unfairness. I was depressed by its seemingly hopelessness. I was scared and debilitatingly anxious that it would swallow me whole.Slowly Slipping Away
I have a foggy memory of my mother taking me to a therapist as a child, maybe 8 years old, after I had repeatedly gotten in trouble for acting out in school. I had forged my mother’s signature on my reading logs, and the notes my teachers sent home about my schoolwork not being done. This was not typical behavior for me at all, but that year I remember not caring anymore. (Also, I swore my version of my mom’s signature was identical to the original, but my 3rd grade perspective was clearly not accurate at all.) There was a sweet little black boy in my grade’s special ed class who had a crush on me. He always waved and said hi, which annoyed me for some reason. One day after school, before the bus picked us up to go to our after school program, I took his favorite Fat Albert book that he had just checked out from the library, and I threw it in the mud behind the school. I didn’t know why I did it, but I know he cried. I remember seeing him in the After school common room, his eyes red and his swollen cheeks stained with tears. His mother approached me angrily when she came to pick him up. Her face was twisted into a scowl and her hands moved violently in the air as she spoke to me. I barely heard what she said. That was the year I became numb to my mother’s whoopin's. I got them so often, I barely felt the belt’s sting on my bare ass anymore. One evening, I remember pretending to cry so that she would just get it over with.I vaguely remember Dr. Brown. He was a tall black man, maybe bald with glasses. His office had a couch in it, and I wondered if I would be asked to lie down. I wasn’t, but I was asked questions about school that I answered with ramblings that may or may not have actually responded to the questions. After 40 minutes of “yes, school is good. I like my class. I don't know why I threw the book in the mud. I don’t know why that kid annoys me.”, I left the room feeling no differently than when I walked in. My mother must have asked me how the session was. I must have said it was fine, though I wasn’t sure how it was supposed to go. I went to see Dr. Brown a few more times after that, not really sharing anything personal with him. He was a complete stranger after all. Lots of shrugs. Lots of mindless, kiddy chatter. I wish someone had explained to me that he was the doctor who could potentially make the beehive in my head less angry, or at the very least, give me a word for it.
Journaling Cave Diving
In high school, something changed - no, crumbled - inside of me. I didn’t know why I always felt so down all the time. I confided in my friends. I told them that sometimes I don’t want to exist. That life felt too hard a lot of the time. One of my friends gave me a “pep” talk by telling me that other people have it a lot worse than I do. The hole in my stomach was immediately filled with guilt. I didn’t go back to that friend for a pep talk after that. There were days when I just felt...crazy. I didn’t know how else to describe it. My thoughts ricocheted against my skull in a blind panic. One moment I would be in English class, and the next, I am in hopelessness, anxiety, and an overwhelming desire to cease to exist and spare my close friends the roller coaster of emotions that oozed into every conversation I had with them. During my sophomore year, I kept a journal that became a cave to hide the crazy. Whenever I felt the beehive start to hiss inside my head, I scribbled desperately into the pages of the notebook, almost burning holes through to the other side. Sometimes, I would be too tired to climb into the cave completely. I would only poke my head inside for a moment long enough to write one sentence: “no one can help me.”It was a strange, confusing mess of tension that lived in my shoulders, back, knees, and beneath my skin. I would scratch at my arms trying to rid myself of it. I tugged forcefully at my box braids, almost as if I wanted to rip them from my scalp. I yanked the hair out of my armpits in the bathroom when no one was around. I picked my soft, calcium-deficient toenails from their beds until tiny, red beads of blood rose to the surface. The next day, the toe would throb, making walking difficult, so I would use the excuse to stay in bed. These were my shameful secrets that I knew were proof of my instabilities. I still had no word for them. I knew I needed help, but I didn’t know how or who to ask for it.
Past the Point of Secrecy
When I was 16, my secret found its way into an assignment I did for English class. I don’t recall what the instructions were, but what I handed my teacher was a letter that resembled a broken young woman telling the world goodbye. She approached me by the vending machines outside the cafeteria the next day before lunch. Her smile was freckled and genuine, with a thick blanket of concern. She had just gotten to my assignment, and she wanted to check in with me. I felt a wall go up, as she asked if I ever wanted her to accompany me to the guidance counselor. I smiled, and told her I was okay - a double lie. She told me the offer stood. When she walked away I dug my nails deep into my palms until I felt them sting, punishing myself for being too scared to own up to what I was feeling.Before the end of high school, I had managed to tell my mother that I needed to talk to someone. I wouldn’t give her much information to go on. I feared that my hurricane of unstable emotions would make her feel at fault somehow. I pulled away from her a lot. I spent most of my time in my bedroom with the door closed so that she didn’t see the brokenness of her oldest child. Even after being diagnosed with depression and anxiety by a professional, I still found myself doubting the validity of this mental “illness.” I was taking medication and going to therapy every week, but a part of me still felt like I was crazy. None of my friends had shared similar struggles with me, so for years I felt undoubtedly alone. There were times when my mother was visibly down. I wondered if she too had depression. The only conversations we had about it back then involved phrases like “life can get us down sometimes.” and “ sometimes we just need to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps.” She couldn’t quite understand how impossible it was for me to do that.
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