Dancing in the Darkness

A silhouette of a brown skinned person posing with their hand on their head, surrounded by darkness.

By. Je'Niece McCullough 

Content Warning: Suicidality

I reflected on not just the last year, but the last decade of my life, as I approached 2020. I found the 2010s to be harrowing. In hindsight, I am able to see and acknowledge that I was depressed. It was quite the revelation.

It is said you are what you most think about. I thought about dying in this last decade more than probably anything else, except for my daughter, whom I affectionately call The Fizzle.

I tried unsuccessfully to church it away. I faithfully attended Sunday service, sang the songs, clapped and shouted when the pastor delivered his sermon. I tearfully laid myself at the feet of the pastor during altar calls. Most Sundays I couldn’t reconcile being told how happy and grateful I should be to be alive, especially since so many didn’t get the chance to wake up. I would wonder, How is it that you tell me at a funeral that to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord, as if it’s a blessing; only to tell me during Sunday service that death (while inevitable) is a bad thing?

I couldn’t synthesize how or why I should be grateful to be alive when it felt horrible.

When I wasn’t at church, I was reading my Bible— studying scripture, devoting myself to prayer and supplication. All that did was prove to me that Jesus and Job were far better humans than I. I tried to rely on mentors and other spiritual people who told me that I wasn’t practicing Law of Attraction properly. Or I wasn’t thinking positively enough to release the thoughts and blockages that were causing my depression. I wanted to do things “right,” but the fact that I was still depressed made me feel like I was still getting it “wrong.” I would look around and wonder why I couldn’t be like everyone else. I felt like I was cursed, and the more I tried to dig out of it, the deeper I seemed to sink.

Those around me either didn’t know, didn’t care, or never considered the possibility that I was depressed. I didn't "look" it. Sometimes I didn't “act" it. They saw me smile, look well groomed, and doing things. However, I would fail to show when invited. I wouldn’t answer calls. What people didn’t realize is that on many occasions, I was too depressed, and lacking the energy to do anything. People began to talk behind my back. I felt I was disappointing people. I needed to be seen for where I was at the moment, and not for where people assumed I was, or even more- where they thought I should be.

After a while, it just became safer to stay away because I didn't want to feel like I was disappointing people. I already felt like a disappointment for myself.

I’ll admit that I never said, I'm depressed. I didn’t recognize it. I knew that I was in pain, but I didn’t have the time to think about it. I had to take care of The Fizzle. Also, like many, I was raised to be strong. There was no stopping of doing what needed to be done because of something as inconsequential as feelings. I told myself that I shouldn’t feel the way I did. I didn’t want to burden anyone. I was conditioned in my youth to never ask for anything—to take care of myself. I tried to do that and felt that I was failing.

I felt alone, hopeless, useless, and any other less that came to mind. I tried to use logic against my depression. However, my depression was a formidable opponent that could raise the logic stakes and convince me that the logic I was attempting to use to defeat it was absolutely nonsensical.

My 38th birthday served as my lowest moment. I had $-13 in my bank account. I couldn’t afford groceries for The Fizzle. I didn’t know how I was going to put gas in my car to get her to school the next day. I felt ashamed. I felt like a poster child for this is not how you do life. I felt betrayed by life, I’d done as I was told. I treated people well. I put good into the world, yet there didn’t seem to be any good returning to me. I went to school to get degrees to get a “good job.” But here I was, jobless.

I couldn’t pay anyone to hire me after my dad died. I’d send out resumes. I’d ask people for help getting a job. I was smart. I had marketable skills. It seemed like everything I touched backfired. I’d have good ideas that I couldn’t get going. I felt I life rewarded me with 13 stumbling backwards steps for every 1 step forward.

It wasn’t just employment. I didn’t feel like I had anyone. I never questioned being loved when my dad was around. I went from being surrounded by people to isolation. Even more, I didn’t feel like I had anything to offer anyone—especially The Fizzle. I felt like she would be better off without me.

I waited until she was asleep to call one of my best friends, Aisha. She answered the phone. I responded, Make sure my daughter knows I love her. She knew what I meant. She kept me on the phone all night. She told me how angry I was making her. That wasn’t my intention. However, I would not budge from my stance. I should say that I couldn’t budge. I told her that I wasn’t calling to piss her off as she told me I was doing. I was just calling to let her know. Finally, around 1 am, too exhausted to explain any further, I promised that I would call later in the morning. I had no intentions of doing so. I had my plan. Several hours later I took The Fizzle to school and returned home, leaving the car running in my closed garage. My only thought was that my pain would soon end. It did not.

Why is this taking so long? I thought to myself. Then my stomach rumbled with hunger. I figured I would allow myself one last meal before I departed. Even prisoners are allowed a final meal. It occurred to me after I ate that it would be prudent to wait even further because the body relieves itself when it’s dying. I didn’t want to leave a huge mess for anyone to clean. Before long, it was time to get The Fizzle from school. Once she was out of school, I needed to help her with her homework and feed her. I couldn’t possibly do it while she was home. I wasn’t trying to traumatize my kid, so it would have to wait until at least the next day. I realized my home wasn’t tidy so I opted to clean the next day so that my body wouldn’t be found in an unkept home.

It went on like this every day.
Deciding to put it off until later for one reason or another until the time to return to it never arrived.
I hadn’t changed my mind. I just never got around to it.
As time passed, I lost the hope to follow through. 
I felt with my luck, I probably wouldn’t have been able to do that right either. So, I didn’t bother.

That wasn’t my first time entertaining the thought of suicide. I first entertained suicidal thoughts in 2008, after my father passed. I would sit in the basement of my parents’ home, near his guns and think about using one to shoot myself in the head. I never did because I didn’t feel it would be right to do so in my parents’ home and I didn’t want to leave a mess. I’m not the neatest person, yet somehow, I was always concerned about neatness when it came to my death plan.

I later decided I would just drive my car into the opposite direction on the highway—preferably in front of a huge truck so that it could do the work for me. Sometimes I would drive onto I-57 after taking The Fizzle to daycare. I would play a game of sorts where I would turn the wheel, almost forcing the car into the opposite lane. My biggest fear was being left with the consequences of an unsuccessful attempt. I would feel like a failure because not only could I not get living right, but I couldn’t get dying right either. I opted for prayer.

God, if you really love me the way I’ve always been told you do, please just let me fall asleep and not wake up.

I was an insomniac. I had the displeasure of not being able to fall asleep and I’d feel cursed to awake. Opening my eyes each morning brought me so much anger. Why couldn’t I just get to not be here anymore? I’d hear of someone’s passing and aside from feeling empathy for their loved ones, my first thought would be, Lucky bastard. How come he/she gets to die?

I felt alone in the darkness.

There were lots of people who didn’t show up for me. Maybe they didn't because they didn’t know. Maybe because they didn’t care. Maybe they were drowning in their own seas of peril. I don’t know why, and I no longer tell myself stories to feel better. I believe the people who did show up were the ones either meant to show, or they were the ones from whom I was able to receive.

I also understand that no one saved or fixed me. They showed up in moments, doing what they could. Those moments have collected in the catalog of my life, allowing me to swim in the waters of gratitude for each one of them. The beauty in those collective moments for me is that there were no grand gestures. Each person offered me small experiences that said, I love you. I’m here for you.

However, at the time it didn’t feel that way. It was brutal having to accept the love they were giving me. I felt worse in those moments where I was tasked with receiving from those who love me. I was so tired that I didn’t have any resolve to fight it.  I did, however, need tp resolve to fight the feelings of worthlessness that increased because I needed their help.

I’m used to being the one to help people. I was the giver of my relationships, not the receiver. I didn’t realize that there was nothing noble about being unable to receive. I didn’t realize that receiving is just as necessary, as giving.

I didn’t know how to receive.
I didn’t think I deserved to receive.
I believed I wasn’t good enough, I didn’t deserve good things, and I wasn’t lovable.

I had a visceral urge to resist when faced with people whose actions told an opposite story of what I believed about myself. Aisha asked me at one point, What do we need to do to get you to see how much you are loved? I told her Nothing. I had to see it for myself. While I am so thankful for each one of those who showed up for me, I am aware that what happened between us was a cooperative dance. They were kind and brave enough to show up for me. Yet, I had to do the heavy lifting. They didn’t take me out of the darkness, but they gave me some light while I was there. And because life is but an accumulation of moments over time, those moments gave me something that helped me to continue. But again, the main work? That was all on my shoulders.

After the low blow of my 38th birthday, I accepted life as it was. I stopped looking for things to change. After all, disappointment can’t follow when there are no expectations. I believe what I did at that point was surrender. I didn’t try to change anything. But gradually, I began to change. Accepting myself and my life as it was helped me to stop comparing myself to other people. When I was no longer comparing myself, I didn’t have a way to tell myself I was failing. I was simply being. I can’t say that I felt it was enough. But I felt that it was what it was. It was like the meme that went around over the summer that said, Summer is gonna get whatever body I give it. I resolved that I was getting whatever life was giving me and it was useless to fight. I stopped needing to know the when, where and how of my life.  OK became my mantra. I believe that’s called flowing. As time passed, things no longer felt so heavy. While not quite buoyant, I didn’t feel so weighed down.

Side silhouette of a person with long braids, raising their face to the light.

It hasn’t all been for naught. My depression has taught me some things. Namely, suffering is not a prerequisite for me to receive good things that I now know I deserve. And while the darkness wasn’t pleasant, I’ve since learned to no longer fear it. I danced, and sometimes just stood along the wall, of the darkness in my soul for a decade. It was painful, scary, and downright lonely. But I did it. In that time, I came face to face with the deepest parts of myself. I didn’t always like what I saw, but I have learned to love every bit of it.

It was only in the darkness that I was able to find my light. Now that I see it, I’m touching it, tasting it, hearing it and allowing others to as well. I’ve learned that depression is not about being weak vs. being strong. No one is so strong that life can’t deliver a TKO, or a complete KO for that matter, that will leave them wishing they weren’t here for it. I no longer feel the need to prove I’m strong by denying my feelings. I’ve learned to be gentle with myself and nurture myself the way I do everyone else.

I have not forgotten where I once was. And I will never forget. I know that I can easily go back to the darkness. And I don’t take that lightly. I’m not saying that’s the answer for everyone who is depressed, but that’s what I’ve learned for me. I’m thankful that I’m in this space of my life. I’m still not the joyful person I used to be what feels like another lifetime ago. Maybe I will never be her again. I’m not even anywhere near where I thought I’d be, or where I’d like to be, for that matter. However, I can honestly say that I’m thankful for how far I’ve come.

Headshot of Je’Niece. She faces the camera directly, wearing a wide smile and showing teeth, shoulder length/dark curly hair, and a turquoise top.

Je’Niece is a mother, daughter, writer, speaker and doula. She is also the only child of the legendary Bernie Mac. Born and raised on the southside of Chicago, she holds a Masters in Mental Health Psychology and has a heart for inspiring others to be their best selves by sharing her life experiences because she believes there is power in speaking our truths.