If You’re Reading This, It Means Depression Didn’t Win, and I’m Alive Celebrating my Birthday!

Today is my 39th birthday…which is 7 since I last tried to end my life.

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Birthday’s have never been something that I look forward to. Just as the song’s lyrics state, “it’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.” Those words echoed every year this date would roll around. Birthday’s are moments to celebrate the life you are living; rejoicing with the people you love ( and who love you) as you are lavished with joyous choruses of adulation, support, and love. I would be lying if I said I did not have people who love me and support me, willing to celebrate the anniversary of my birth…but, I can be honest and say that it felt as though the person they were celebrating was not truly me.

In early September 2019, on an usually chilly day for Houston, I decided this would be the last year of my life. I made the plans. I wrote the note. I also decided to call around and see a therapist. Not because I intended to seek treatment for depression and anxiety, but solely so when I executed my plan to exit this painful existence, I could at least gift comfort to my family by allowing them to see I fought to stay.

Even though at that time, I didn’t have the intention to do that.

I remember the day I walked into Family Houston and met my Therapist, Shelly. It was September 17 ,and I just as every childhood appointment, my Dad took me and waited with me.

“Do you have any plans to harm yourself?”

That question was bold, loud, and pronounced.

I answered no.

I lied.

But no one needed to know I was lying, this was solely to give my dad, brother, and son a peace of mind when my plan was fully executed.

I walked into a small room that had a wall of board games and art work that framed various corners of the room. The couch was firm, yet had a level of softness that felt like it was inviting safety, and forced me to sit firmly upright. As Shelly entered the room, I felt my pulse quicken, hands shake, and beads of sweat began to form on the hairs of my eyebrows.

“I’m Shelly, I’m so happy you’re hear today,” were to soft and bright words she spoke.

She was kind. Still is. She had this warmth and comfort that vibrated with every word spoken. Her words that day felt as though they were guiding me to a place that was begging me to let go of all that I’m holding. I was so tense, that my breath felt constricted and tight. Within 30 minutes into our session, I realized I was no longer holding my breath. I could feel air entering into my lungs without the tight restriction I become accustomed to feeling. It was as if the exhale of that tightly-held breath was now allowing a crack to form, and I could now feel that there was light trying to enter within me, too.

I don’t know what it was about that initial meeting, but it felt like the universe wanted me to meet this lady. So, on September 17, 2019, at noon, I left out of that grey room with colorful accents, and made the choice that maybe I could try to stay a bit longer.

The next six and half years were difficult. Pandemic. Mother’s life-threatening health scare. My sister almost dying from Covid-twice! Losing friendships and enduring hard relationship issues, and stress, felt like the weight of ten Sumo wrestlers were always on my back. I was referred to a psychiatrist to work in tandem with my therapy, and was prescribed very high dosages of psychiatric medications.

I spent the next six and half years numb.

I don’t remember a lot from those years. I lost years. I lost time.

I was here. I was still staying for my family…but it felt as though I was hooked up on life support. I had awareness of what externally was happening around me, but I felt like I wasn’t present.

I lied in bed most of that time and became a reclusive hermit. I never left my home. I rarely left the four walls of my bedroom. It was me, my now fading floral comforter, 24/7 marathons of “I Love Lucy”, and my dog, Misty. My son was much younger then, and he would spend all of quarantine next to me as he did his school work, played with his action figures, and even watched the same 10 episodes of “I Love Lucy.” He never complained of having to take on the role of caretaker.

He never complained that he while he had his mother here physically, mentally, she wasn’t present. She was sedated and a shell of a person. He needed nurturing, protection, and a mom who wasn’t a zombie. He instead had a mother who was trying to not succumb to the wounds that trauma, neglect, abuse, and mental illness had inflicted on her, well before he ever took his first breath.

There are many things that mental illness and trauma have done that are hard and difficult to heal from; the cruelty it inflicted on my son as collateral damage- pisses me the f*%# off!

I have guilt over that. I grieve a lot from what I endured for most of my life, and all I survived, but the the hardest part of grieving the existence I suffered through, is knowing my baby had to be with me and experienced the impact that it recoiled onto him.

“I’ve failed him and he will grow up to resent me,” are the tearful words I have spoken to my therapist, brother, and God.

I talked a lot( and still do) to those who were always willing to hear my cries, both those that were audible and the one’s I silently let flow, during the depth’s of darkness that depression had me wander through.

I wouldn’t say that I’m religious. I know that in the moment of time we live in , as we are seeing the weaponization of God being aimed at those who look differently, worship differently, speak a different language, and immigrate here from a country of origin doesn’t have a huge population of blonde-haired and blue-eyed people, it is hard to say you are a person of faith because you don’t want to be attached to those who say they are- but actions and words don't reflect that.

I have always been someone who talked to God.

I didn’t grow up in church.

My mom grew up Baptist and attended a small church in Jena, Louisiana. She was in the choir. With her grandma that raised her, Mama Susie, she was involved in everything that makes up the ecosystem of the black-church. She wore crisp white gloves as an usher, while afterwards changing into a choir robe to wear as she sat on wooden pews, behind the preacher, singing the gospel hymns that Jesus himself was tapping his foot along to as he rejoiced with the angels in Heaven.

My parents both are people of faith who allowed us children to explore what having a relationship with God meant to us as individuals. Our faith has always been rooted in one very important principle- Love! Love others as you would want to be love; allowing that love to reflect in the actions, choices, and words you speak onto others.

There are many people who stood by me when I decided to enter the ring to fight depression. Every punch and taunt that was thrown my way, they took some of the blows right along with me.

Countless nights my brother stayed up to make sure I could survive through the night when the noise of suicidal ideation would become so robust, that I felt as though I was unable to silence it.

My dad called every morning, afternoon, dinner time, and at night, to just make sure I was told how much I’m loved.

My son… my gosh. My son made sure I took my medicine, wiped my tears, made me laugh, made sure I ate, and nurtured me in a way that I still feel such sadness for, because it should have been the other way around.

My best friend, Cinthya. One of the things depression did was impede on that friendship for a period of time. I isolated myself. I was wounded by what other’s had done in my moment of despair, that I no longer felt safe to allow others in. She would come to my door many times to just talk, but I was too broken to trust I could be her friend, and vice versa. That door closed for a period of time. But I do feel that time allowed for us to individually grow and heal on things that when the timing was right, we reunited and have a friendship, a sisterhood, that I truly feel is divinely placed. She is the Ethel to my Lucy, down for the ride, and willing to navigate all of the twists and turns this journey takes me on.

I have the support team of my dad, brother, son, best friend, and therapist, that make the Avengers look weak in comparison. If Depression is Thanos, he better watch out, cause as soon as I utter the words, “ Avenger’s assemble,” they’re beating him so bad, he’s gonna wish he never tried to even get an inch within my presence.

Then I had God. Maybe you don’t believe in a higher power, and that's ok.

I’m not here to hand you a pamphlet and tell you all about the ways you should believe or else you’re doomed to an eternity in hell. No shade to anyone who does that, but me, this girl right here ( yes, I’m aware 39 isn’t a girl. But I’m a girl. Argue with your mammy, not me), knows whoever is up there, I just know when I couldn’t leave the house and lost every friend I thought I had, I could speak my feelings out loud, in hopes that someone up there was hearing them. I found peace through that. I believe that amongst the host of things I have gained in the hardest season of my entire life, faith is the greatest.

I gained faith not just in a spiritual sense, but within myself. I have never loved birthdays because I didn’t feel as though I had a life worth celebrating. I was correct. Who I was before February 21,2026, was not the person I was meant to be, or wanted to be.

I hid.

I dimmed my own light, while shrinking myself, because I wanted to be accepted by others.

I wanted to be chosen.

My biggest fear before today was fearing that I would die alone. Unloved and not chosen by anyone.

My greatest fear now is settling for an existence that was never meant for me.

I no longer seek approval, acceptance, or the longing to be chosen by anyone. I choose myself. I love myself. I finally love myself enough to fight for the life I want… not willing to settle for anything less.

I want to live now and not just exist.

I am uncomfortable and the pains of healing are at times loud and overwhelming, but I would rather feel all of this then go back to being numb and existing silently in pain.

So, here’s to 39!

May this year be the year I not just live, but do it boldly, loudly, and authentically; whether fear roars and doubt tries to implant itself in my thoughts, I will not allow it to tether me back into an existence that feels “safe” but truthfully is dangerous- because it keeps me in a place that no longer requires my presence.

I will no longer occupy the backseat, allowing fear to drive me in a circle that ends back to the places depression wanted to take me to, so that I would end my life.

I am taking up space: loud, bold, raw, and as honest as I can be.

I can’t wait to share this journey with all of you and explore what it means to FINALLY live the life that has always been waiting for me.

I’m not late. I am arriving right on time.

-Raeshan Hart