When I was 16 years old, I founded my own non-profit organization called Anta’s Promise: Collect, Care, and Share. The organization’s purpose was to provide aid to the growing homeless community of my city, Chicago, Illinois. We collected clothing, food, and toiletries and distributed them to those in need between the months of November and March 2013-2014. My organization was successful in our efforts, as I was recognized and rewarded with six billboards across the city for my work and a one minute commercial from ComEd in their yearly Power of One campaign, which highlighted my organization, its purpose, and the fact that I was the youngest recipient of the award to date.
Ironically, exactly a year before around that same time, my 15 year old self tried to take my own life.
What I find to be the most interesting component of mental illness is the many forms it takes, how it penetrates the most fruitful lives, and how little say-so I, the individual, was able to have as the illness engulfed my soul, my mind, and my entire being. I deteriorated, first slowly and then all at once. Areas that I once sought out for refuge dissipated and the word lonely does not even begin to adequately describe the place I was at in my life. But what is perhaps the worst component of mental illness is how hard it is to describe your emotions and feelings to loved ones; how to describe your tears, when from their perspective you should not have anything to cry about.
Luckily I had parents who were compassionate enough for my situation to help me get help. I was hospitalized, entering LakeShore Medical Hospital’s youth ward during the middle of my spring break sophomore year. After tedious observation, I was diagnosed with clinical depression, prescribed a tablet of Prozac a day, and stayed there for approximately two weeks. Did the Prozac help? No, in fact it made it worse and I insisted that I be taken off of it immediately. Did the therapy help? No, but I did enjoy sharing my thoughts with individuals who have had them as well. Did anything help? To be frank, no. LakeShore released me after two weeks of slipshod recovery treatments, but my depression did not release me until after 2 more years of tears, failed suicide attempts, and a complete facade that made the world think that I was OK.
I think as black women, we consistently undermine the statement “I am not okay.” We don’t like those words, but why would we? When have we ever? To quote the late and great Maya Angelou, “There is a kind of strength that is almost frightening in black women. It’s as if a steel rod runs right through the head down to the feet.” We have inherited both the strength and resilience of our ancestors, as we don’t hold in our personal vices for sport; but for the good of those around us. Those around us are more important than ourselves, and in the process of tending to these individuals, we fall to pieces. And are so engrossed in the motions that we do not even notice it. This steel rod Angelou speaks of is the very rod that holds us together; the very rod that I clung onto for as long as I could. And when I let go, it felt exceptional.
I opened up this article with what I deem my greatest achievement of my high school career, aside from being elected as Senior Class President, voted as Social Activist of the Year for the 2014-1015 school year, speaking on Fox 32 news at the meek age of 15, and sitting three seats away from Michelle Obama at my high school graduation. Yet despite these successes, my greatest downfall has been accepting that I was fighting for my life in the process of all of this, and how integral that time has been to my development as a woman and a hopeful game changer in society today.
As of recently, I have received an incomparable amount of positive feedback on my recent work and where I’m at in life right now (let’s just say 2013 Anta is not 2016 Anta. By a long shot). Ranging from individuals that have known me since grammar school, to teachers that I’ve just crossed paths with this year. But a new audience has arose and my heart is warm from them; the girls that don’t know me from a can of paint but openly admit to me that I am their role model. Words used to describe me usually fall between ‘perfect’, ‘flawless’, and ‘superhuman’. And I am none of these things. However, I knew I would be an even greater role model if I revealed this truth and showed them that roses really can grow out of concrete. It’s one thing to say it, but it’s another thing to be living proof, and I hope that my truth allows others to understand that it is okay to not be okay. Because sooner than later, you will be.
