This First Person column is by Bria Barrows, who lives in Toronto. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my mom, feeling scared and confused as I told her I was having suicidal thoughts. Tears welled in her eyes as she searched my face, trying to process what I was saying.
“You have food, shelter and clothing. Why would you be depressed?”
My parents are Jamaican and immigrated to Canada more than 50 years ago. My mom is a legal assistant and my dad is an upholsterer. They did their best to raise me in a household filled with love and stability. I’ve always had what I’ve needed.
But I’ve realized now that my parents were raised to focus more on provision than on meeting their emotional needs. I had lots of toys when I was little, clothing, food and all the necessities. What was missing, however, were those check-ins to see how I was doing emotionally.
But that day in 2013, I knew my mom didn’t understand how I, an 18-year-old who had friends and came from a loving home, could feel depressed.
I realized I also didn’t understand why. That came much later with therapy.
It started with the subtle pressures of school.
I was in Grade 12 at a private Christian school where I had many friends. But the stress of being an excellent student had become too much for me and I didn’t know how to separate my sense of personal worth from external validation. I struggled heavily with wanting to prove my worth to both my parents and those around me at school. I thought if I did well, I would be validated.
As a student who is driven and motivated, I noticed that as time went by, I found it difficult to concentrate and had difficulties keeping up with my schoolwork.
I’ve always loved English and even dropped the rest of my courses to focus only on this subject, thinking a lower course load would help. Despite this, I struggled. I started getting headaches, was anxious, forgetful and extremely tired.
Weeks went by and I felt an overwhelming sadness that wouldn’t go away. Then, one Sunday in mid-May, I found a bottle of antifreeze in the garage and just stood there, hovering over it. I knew I didn’t want to end my life but I was exhausted and I needed my family to know that I wasn’t OK.
But when I told my mom, she didn’t help me seek help right away. Instead, we did what many Black people do in a crisis.
We prayed.
We prayed and hoped that praying would fix what I felt.
But my symptoms continued to worsen and the suicidal thoughts didn’t go away. A few weeks later, my family took me to the hospital where I saw psychiatrists, was prescribed an antidepressant and diagnosed with major depressive disorder.
Receiving this diagnosis was both a curse and a blessing because I felt relief knowing that there was a cause for what I was going through. But it was also difficult and traumatizing to learn that I had depression because of the stigma of mental illness in the Jamaican community.
When a family friend learned about my depression and asked why I had let myself go crazy, I felt confused and hurt because I felt like I was being blamed for something I couldn’t control.
Another family member asked how long I would be on medication. This question made me uncomfortable because the situation was new to me. I was just getting used to taking medication without feeling like it was a bad thing, because at first, my mom had hesitations about me taking it.
Looking back, I didn’t know anyone among friends or family who struggled with their mental health. When I first became unwell, friends at school didn’t know how to help me because it was new for all of us.
Going to group therapy helped shift my perspective. Seeing people from different cultural and socioeconomic backgrounds and with similar challenges reminded me that I wasn’t alone, and mental illness doesn’t pick and choose.
My diagnosis also shifted my relationship with religion. I understand people had the best intentions when they prayed for me, but looking back, I wish I had gone to the doctor sooner. I’ve since learned that prayer can be used for comfort and reassurance, but reaching out for professional help is also necessary when in crisis.
Since being diagnosed, things haven’t been perfect. In 2017, I relapsed because I stopped taking my medication regularly. But since then, I have educated myself on the use of antidepressants and have been well for almost a decade.
Today, at 30, I can see I’ve come a long way from when I was in the depths of depression. I also continue to educate myself on mental health by joining organizations here in Canada that are dedicated to mental health awareness and suicide prevention.
By listening to the stories of other people, talking to professionals and experiencing the reality of depression, I’ve learned that mental illness isn’t a weakness — it’s a condition that anyone can face.
These days, discussions about mental health get different reactions from friends and family. For the most part, people like to be educated so they know how they can help, but sometimes I’ll be asked to talk about something else or someone may say something that is offensive. These comments can hurt but it reinforces the importance of having conversations about mental health.
Even my mom’s perception of mental health has changed a lot. I know in the beginning, she was really apprehensive of me taking medication. She would mention to me what she heard about side-effects. But now she tells me that they are helping me and she’ll remind me and say, “Bria, did you take it today?” This is helpful for me knowing that I have this support.
My mom and I talk about mental health openly now and there is no longer a feeling of secrecy around the topic, which has helped me greatly in the healing process, knowing that I don’t have to navigate challenges in silence. Although there has been growth in this area, there is always room for improvement and I will continue to remind her how important these mental health check-ins are for me.
I hope my story encourages families like mine that mental health conversations are just as important as our culture and faith.
Talking about it is how we heal.
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For more stories about the experiences of Black Canadians — from anti-Black racism to success stories within the Black community — check out Being Black in Canada, a CBC project Black Canadians can be proud of.
