Being Jamaican in Canada Meant We Didn’t Talk About Mental Health – Until Depression Forced Me To Do So
This first-person column is by Bria Barrows, who lives in Toronto. For more information on CBC’s first-person stories, please visit FAQ.
I was sitting across the kitchen table from my mother, feeling scared and confused as I told her I was having suicidal thoughts. Tears welled up in her eyes as she searched my face, trying to process what I was saying.
“You have food, shelter, and clothes. Why would you be sad?”
My parents are Jamaican and immigrated to Canada over 50 years ago. My mother is a legal assistant and my father is an upholsterer. They tried their best to raise me in a home full of love and stability. I always had what I wanted.
But now I realize that my parents grew up to focus more on provisions rather than meeting my emotional needs. When I was little I had lots of toys, clothes, food and all the necessary things. However, what was missing was a check-in to see how I was feeling emotionally.
But that day in 2013, I knew that my mom didn’t understand how I, an 18-year-old boy who had friends and came from a loving home, could feel sad.
I realized that even I didn’t understand why. This came much later with therapy.
It started with subtle pressures from school.
I was in 12th grade at a private Christian school where I had many friends. But the stress of being an excellent student became too much for me and I didn’t know how to separate my sense of personal worth from external validation. I struggled immensely with the desire to prove my worth to my parents and those around me at school. I thought if I performed well I would be validated.
As a motivated and inspired student, I noticed that as time went on, I found it difficult to concentrate and keep up with my school work.
I have always loved English and I even dropped the rest of my courses to focus solely on this subject, thinking that 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 I stood there, hovering over it. I knew I didn’t want to end my life, but I was tired and I needed to let my family know I wasn’t okay.
But when I told my mother, she didn’t help me seek help immediately. Instead, we did what many black people do in times of crisis.
We prayed.
We prayed and hoped that what I felt would be healed by praying.
But my symptoms continued to worsen and the suicidal thoughts did not go away. A few weeks later, my family took me to the hospital where I saw psychiatrists, was given antidepressants, and was diagnosed with major depressive disorder.
Receiving this diagnosis was both a curse and a blessing because I felt relieved to know that there was a reason for what I was going through. But it was also difficult and painful to know what caused me to have depression. Stigma of mental illness in the Jamaican community.
When a family friend found out about my depression and asked why I let myself go crazy, I felt confused and sad because I felt like I was being blamed for something I couldn’t control.
Another family member asked how long I would remain on the medication. This question made me uncomfortable because the situation was new to me. I was getting used to taking the medicine without realizing it was a bad thing, because at first my mother was hesitant 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 to all of us.
Going to group therapy helped change my perspective. Seeing people from different cultural and socio-economic backgrounds and with similar challenges reminded me that I was not alone, and mental illness does not happen by choice.
My diagnosis also changed my relationship with religion. I understand that people had good intentions when they prayed for me, but looking back I wish I had gone to the doctor sooner. I have since learned that prayer can be used for comfort and reassurance, but it is also essential to reach out for professional help in times of crisis.
Things have not gone well since being diagnosed. In 2017, I had a relapse because I stopped taking the medicine regularly. But since then, I have educated myself about the use of antidepressants and have been in recovery for almost a decade.
Today, at the age of 30, I can see that I have come a long way from the times when I was in the depths of depression. I continue to educate myself on mental health by connecting with organizations in Canada that are dedicated to mental health awareness and suicide prevention.
By hearing other people’s stories, talking to professionals, and experiencing the reality of depression, I’ve learned that mental illness is not a weakness – it’s a condition that anyone can face.
Nowadays, discussions about mental health elicit varying 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 might say something that was offensive. These comments may hurt but they reinforce the importance of conversations about mental health.
Even my mother’s perception about mental health has changed a lot. I know she was really apprehensive about me taking medication in the beginning. She would tell me what she had heard about side effects. But now she tells me that they are helping me and she will remind me and say, “Bria, did you take it today?” It helps me to know that I have this support.
My mom and I now talk openly about mental health and no longer have a sense of secrecy around the topic, which has helped me tremendously in the healing process, knowing that I won’t have to face challenges in silence. Although there has been progress in this area, there is always room for improvement and I will continue to remind her how important these mental health checks are to me.
I hope my story will encourage families like mine that mental health conversations are as important as our culture and faith.
Talking about it is how we heal.
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