How I learned to manage mental illness & find my strength as a Black queer man

I was sixteen, in tears on the bathroom floor, when a sudden wave of dread washed over me. It felt like I was sinking into the floor and watching myself from outside my body.

I was floating, disconnected from everything around me, and any semblance of God’s light had left my life. The world around me blurred as if everything had become a scene in a movie. That was my first panic attack, marking the beginning of my deep struggle with mental health.

Looking back, there were signs of my emotional turmoil, even in childhood. I was a gifted, creative, and sassy Black child who would grow up to be an out loud and proud Black queer man. My constant emotional outbursts—crying when overwhelmed by anger or frustration—were so regular that I was often shamed for being too sensitive.

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As a little Black boy, I was told to “toughen up,” but in hindsight, it was clear that something deeper was happening.

Growing up, my family moved constantly. My parents had me in their teen years, and my mother remarried while I was still young. They were often more concerned with their own lives, leaving me feeling emotionally neglected. I survived sexual assault by another child, lived through domestic violence, and endured ridicule from my stepfather, who called me a “pussy.” Their eventual divorce only added to the instability. While these experiences certainly impacted me, that panic attack at sixteen—and the depression that followed—went beyond just my surroundings.

After that day in the bathroom, everything was different. Overnight, I lost the will to do anything. I couldn’t eat or sleep and floated through each day in a daze. My mother, influenced by a cult-like religious group, believed my depression was a result of her sin. Her pastor claimed it was “an attack of the enemy.” They purged my room of anything deemed worldly, including People magazine with Princess Diana on the cover, as her pastor claimed it was what brought “the spirit depression” into our home.

During this supposed cleansing, my mother, her pastor, and members of the church anointed my head with oil and surrounded me, babbling in tongues. They commanded the supposed spirits to leave me in Jesus’ name, but it gave me no relief. No matter how many times they repeated the ritual, my hopelessness remained. Desperate for a way out, I fasted, naively believing it would break my despair. The church taught that fasting could cast out whatever was oppressing me. But instead of bringing me the will to live, it left me feeling emptier. I didn’t find liberation; I just wanted to die.

As I grew older, my mental health issues began to manifest in other ways. Though not yet diagnosed, my bipolar disorder with co-morbid obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) took the form of existential OCD, which involves persistent, distressing mood swings characteristic of bipolar disorder, with periods of intense highs (mania) and crushing lows (depression). During these episodes, I had an unholy feeling that my apartment would collapse or that a black hole would open up and pull me apart. Simple choices, like what to wear, became terrifying. I convinced myself that certain clothes could bring harm, leading me to throw away items I liked, believing they brought misfortune. This spiraled into an exhausting cycle of panic.

Living with the symptoms of severe mental illness, I dropped out of college, thinking it would help. However, I continued to experience regular episodes of panic. My heart would race uncontrollably, and I would wake up in the middle of the night, convinced I was having a heart attack. I went to the emergency room multiple times, desperate for answers. Doctors suggested I might be experiencing panic disorder and recommended that I seek help. One concerned doctor even prescribed something to manage my anxiety. However, I dismissed them as white people refusing to listen to me, insisting that I was having a heart attack. I left feeling unheard and more isolated than ever.

According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), Black adults in the U.S. are more likely to report feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and worthlessness than their white counterparts. However, only about one-third of Black individuals with mental illness receive treatment. For Black queer men, the stigma is often compounded, making it even more challenging to seek help.

Every year, without fail, a despondency set in around November. Even though I had left my religious upbringing behind, I still believed what I was experiencing might be spiritual. I tried meditation and new-age practices, but the feelings of dread persisted. The pressure to view mental health through a spiritual lens weighed heavily on me.

Religion plays a complicated role in the mental health of Black queer men. Historically, the Black church has been a sanctuary for the community, providing spiritual and emotional support. However, it has also been a source of pressure and shame for those of us who don’t fit its narrow ideals of masculinity, sexuality, and emotional expression. Teachings that frame mental illness as a spiritual failing—a demonic influence or a sign of not praying enough—can be isolating and prevent many from seeking professional help.

In addition to religious beliefs, there’s a persistent notion in parts of the Black community that therapy is “for white people.”

This view stems from a long history of mistrust in the medical establishment, exacerbated by systemic racism, which was an act of betrayal against our culture, with some believing that therapy and medication were tools designed to numb Black people and erase who we are. This belief was reinforced during a severe panic attack when I reached out to a close friend, a young Black woman from a religious background like mine.

Desperate, I called her for support. Her response left me stunned: “Just pray,” she urged. “Maybe you got some bad weed. Drink some milk, and don’t go to any doctors—they’ll just try to convince you you’re crazy.”

While well-intentioned, her words reflected the harmful attitudes toward mental health care prevalent in our community, leaving me feeling more isolated and trapped in my spiraling thoughts.

When I was 23, after my best friend died from a drug overdose, I spiraled into a full psychiatric breakdown. I spent nights on hookup apps and days feeling like life was meaningless. My family dismissed my pain, urging me to pray and warning against doctors. I was at a breaking point, losing my job and nearly all hope.

A lifeline came when someone from Human Resources mentioned that my insurance covered therapy. I finally decided to go, terrified of going against everything I had been taught. When I told my mother that I was going to see a psychiatrist, she asked if I would attend a “deliverance retreat” at a Christian wilderness center instead—a weekend of intense prayer meant to expel demons. To her, this was the “treatment” I truly needed. Even as I began to take steps toward professional help, the pressure to view my illness solely through a spiritual lens persisted. I declined the retreat, knowing I needed to address my illness as a natural, diagnosable condition.

In therapy, I was placed with an older white woman. I had to explain to her some aspects of Black culture and our community’s attitudes toward faith and mental health. She was open to hearing me and took the time to understand where I was coming from. She explained that therapists wanted to help us heal and shared that she believed she was doing what God wanted her to do. She assured me that I didn’t need to fear mental health providers, easing some of the anxieties I had about seeking help. My therapist then suggested I see a psychiatrist, suspecting bipolar disorder. I was even more frightened to see the psychiatrist, but desperation won out.

During our session, he listened to me and quickly identified “pressured speech,” a symptom of mania. He confidently diagnosed me with bipolar disorder and assured me that he could help. I filled the prescription for a mood stabilizer and an antidepressant, hoping for some relief.

The first time I took the medication, I felt an unexpected calm settle over my mind. Despite my family’s warnings that medication would “change” me, I continued with the treatment, and slowly, my symptoms eased. However, my life had already changed. I lost my job as an HIV/AIDS prevention coordinator. One day, I left work in tears and never went back. Now, I am on Social Security Disability and work part-time, and for many years, I had a deep sense of shame about being young and unable to work. With the free time I gained from being on disability, I turned to community organizing, working with Black queer people to build spaces of social justice and support.

At 39 years old, I am happily married to my husband, Christopher, a wonderful Black man, and we have been together for six years. We live in a lovely apartment with our 14-year-old Lancashire Heeler, Barnabas. My life hasn’t been easy, and I have experienced crushing bouts of depression as recently as six months ago. However, I am now enjoying life and finding meaning in it. Most of my symptoms are at bay as long as I follow my treatment plan, monitor my mood, get enough sleep, and keep my stressors low.

Recently, I decided to get a tattoo to commemorate my journey. I chose the molecular structure of one of the mental health medications I take, a symbol of the help it has provided me through my darkest times. When I showed it to my mother, she responded with love but insisted, “It wasn’t the medication that saved your life; it was God.”

Her words stung. I asked why it couldn’t be God and the medication. It’s a tension I continue to navigate as I accept her faith and the reality of my mental health care.

For Black queer men, the intersection of race, sexual orientation, and cultural beliefs about mental health creates a unique and often overwhelming pressure. There is no shame in struggling with mental health as a Black queer man. We must act as our brother’s keeper and be vigilant, whether he is a lover or a friend, as he may be in crisis.

Call to Action: We must prioritize mental health conversations as a community. This means checking in on our friends, encouraging them to seek professional help, and normalizing the use of therapy and medication. If you or someone you know is struggling, don’t hesitate to reach out to organizations like the National Queer and Trans Therapists of Color Network or The Trevor Project, which provide resources and support tailored to our experiences.

I share my story now to break the silence that surrounds mental health in the Black community, especially among queer men. It’s time for us to have honest conversations about the importance of mental well-being and the reality of mental illness. Seeking help isn’t a betrayal of our culture or faith; it’s an act of self-preservation. We are worthy of care, compassion, and understanding—not just from others but from ourselves. By speaking up and seeking support, we can create a future where Black queer mental health is not taboo but a testament to our strength and resilience.

Faith and mental health care do not have to be at odds; we deserve to embrace both in our pursuit of wholeness.