True Life: Dating The Wrong Men Triggered My Anxiety & Depression

I think if there's any woman more qualified to speak on this topic, it's me. I've been married more times than I admit to (twice). I've dated every kind of black man you can think of. I like to say that my anxiety and depression surfaced after my mom's death in 2010 but looking at the struggles of all black people, I clearly see now that my blackness has been a journey to wholeness and my mom's death finally just woke my ass up.

Hi trauma, I call you out, completely.

I can't front. I can't seem to like any black man I've ever encountered longer than two years of my life 'cause I'm too turned off by their lack of ability to love a black woman to healing. Or with loyalty and communication.

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Black women nurture the world, every single day. Our strength alone is amazing. Black women are the ones who look out for black men, who cover them, create safe spaces and homes for them, accept things we shouldn't because quality is limited, while trying to love the pieces of their untapped soul. Facing their potential with a game plan. That alone should make a black man say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all the men who didn't see you as value, who intentionally demean your character with lies to avoid correction."

Their pride and egos be waking up my anxiety and depression after I took my time putting it back to sleep. Snooze button rescue me, just malfunction and let me be.

His blackness, been so demonized that his conscious missed me at hello. Even though he made sure his cologne kissed me before he did, the seasons together don't last, for me. My soul values inner peace.

This society got the black man thinking that looking good feels good, so they'll put more time into their appearance to become a magnet; leaving trails behind of more women disgusted who really know his character behind closed doors, than more women wanting a couple of forevers with him. Goodbye to the days that black men use the color of their skin as an injustice but leave women of the same colored skin, broken.

Now that's an injustice.

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I get it now. I know that we are the true chosen people of the land, and our blackness creates an inferior complex from our oppressors. A black man taught me that, a man who had the capability to be a real good man but when life got real he failed, as a real good man. He cheated while I was pregnant with his child and expected me to not keep feeling some type of way, every time his toxic behavior triggered my anxiety or reminded me that the pain of bearing his child was welcomed with his infidelity. Hit me like a ton of bricks, I actually thought he was the one. I pick the wrong ones.

I speak for all black women who have come to realize that we're tired of thinking something can happen to the majority of black men at once.

Black men trigger my anxiety and depression in a world that's already hard enough. I vow to find self-love from within on a greater level. I picked the wrong ones.

Hooked, to a black dream with black kids, a black husband, under one roof, one dream to build some shit I ain't never seen, before.

I ain't picking the wrong ones no more.

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I have a made up mind, unpacking what they left behind in my soul could take a lifetime. Hell, my mama got me unpacking too. I look at my kids every day and never do I want to choose the streets over you. I been a mama before college and that's all my adult friends have ever known me as. I'm qualified to say this.

I've tried to love every black man I came across but if the pain of making them whole makes me incomplete then keep them far away from me.

I made my mind up this year, loving a black man who never gets love in the white land is too hard for me. My last lover slipped up and said, "It's like I need you to be my mother" and when I replied my reality of "I can't do that, it'll only hurt me," he hurried up and tried to reword it but I knew exactly what he meant by that. It's evident in the world. Black men need their mamas to fix their abandonment.

See when you go through your twenties full of life, dreams and aspirations to only enter your thirties screwed, broken and not fulfilled, if you're anything like me, that soul-searching hits like a winning game point in the playoffs. It's deep.

It's Mental Health Month, Healers.

Rescue me.

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