When I was young, we didn’t know anything about bipolar, ADHD, or OCD. For most of the kids who looked like me, we were troublemakers. Lazy. Not living up to our “potential.” And my personal favorite — “at risk.”
I saw things that still twist my stomach. Families locking their special-needs kids away like shame in human form. Others giving children up for adoption because they saw difference as a “defect.” I didn’t understand it then, but I also didn’t question it. I figured it wasn’t my business. That was my own brand of ignorance — youthful stupidity with a good dose of asswipe. Luckily, I got my head out of my ass before it became permanent.
I watched people claw their way toward acceptance, thinking if they could just fit in, life might hurt less. It didn’t. I saw cruelty take every shape imaginable. And one night, I watched one of the kindest people I’d ever met get invited to a “party” by the popular crowd. What happened there was wrong on every level — a setup disguised as an invitation. People laughed. Some stood frozen, watching. Nobody stopped it. That was the night I decided I wouldn’t stand by again. I made it my mission to fight for the ones who couldn’t. Easier said than done, but it was a start.
Thing was, I knew what it felt like to be made to feel less than. My athletic ability was my equalizer — my way to earn space. But it was a fragile kind of belonging. I thought if I could hit harder, run faster, fight better, I’d earn respect.
Turns out, asswipes are going to be asswipes no matter how many beatings you hand out.
Being a nerd and a geek didn’t help either — things I embrace now but used to hide. Being Black in America wasn’t easy, but even that didn’t compare to the way people treated those with mental or learning conditions. Hate, I learned, is colorblind and endlessly creative.
We love to talk about how diversity makes America great. Sometimes I think diversity only exists on posters and TV slogans.
Then it hit home. My family. I wasn’t ready, but I wasn’t scared. I just had to face a truth I didn’t want to admit: I had some buried prejudice of my own. Stuff I didn’t even know was there. And if I wanted to keep my family whole, I had to deal with it. Over time, I did.
Then came my own diagnosis. PTSD. That’s when I found even more latent bullshit buried under the macho armor — the “last American badass” act. Mental illness didn’t exist for men like me. Especially not for Black men, because we’re supposed to be ridiculously strong. But let’s be honest — that toxic script applies to men everywhere. Be strong. Don’t cry. Fix it or bury it. It’s a lie that kills quietly.
The stigma runs deep — not just in the streets, but in the system. I asked a therapist once about ADHD and OCD, wondering if some of my symptoms overlapped. She waved it off: “Once you resolve your PTSD, you’ll be back to normal.”
Back to normal. As if “normal” were a bus stop I could just catch on the next route.
That’s the problem. Too many mental health professionals treat PTSD like it’s a virus. “Bend over, quick poke, might sting a little.” Hell, if it were that simple, I’d have rolled up my sleeve years ago.
But it’s not. None of it is. Every mind is different. What wrecks me might roll right off you. What medication lifts you up might level me. But they don’t listen. They pull out the checklist, ask the same robotic questions, tick the same boxes, and call it “care.”
It’s one-size-fits-all medicine — and that bullshit didn’t work for clothing, so why the hell do they think it’ll work for the mind?
When I hit full-blown crisis mode, I was lucky. I got an intern who actually gave a damn. She helped me start living with PTSD instead of suffering from it. She listened. She paid attention. She saw the person, not the file.
My psychiatrist? Worthless. I called him my dope man to his face. He corrected me — gave me his title like I was some illiterate twit. I told him I didn’t give a damn what his title was; he was still my dope man, and the least he could do was give me some good shit.
Instead, I got the cheap stuff — the kind that made me feel disrespected, doped, and disposable.
But I’ve been lucky since then. I have a care team now that actually seems to give a damn about me as a person — not just a walking diagnosis. I don’t know exactly how that happened, but I’ve got a small inkling. See, there were a few medical professionals who became casualties of my unfiltered disdain for incompetence. I didn’t hold back. Maybe that left a trail — maybe word got around that I wasn’t someone to bullshit. Whatever it was, I finally ended up with people who listen. Who treat me like a human being instead of a puzzle to solve.
Medication isn’t the solution. It never has been. It’s the work of the individual — the daily grind of facing the mirror and doing the damn work — that brings real results. I’ve worked with soldiers and civilians who carry the same ghosts, and the truth doesn’t change. The treatment only works when you treat the person. They’re not data points. They’re people. Treat them as such.
We are people. We deserve to be treated fairly. Not pitied. Not managed. Not turned into a statistic on a spreadsheet. We deserve the love and fairness that every living soul on this planet is owed.
If you want to help someone, start by listening. Don’t tell them what they need — ask them. Sure, you might know a few things, but don’t force it. Offer choices. Let them decide for themselves. Nobody likes being told what to do. And the ones who say they don’t mind? They’re lying.
Healing isn’t a factory line. It’s messy, human, and different for everyone. What calms one person might break another. What saves you might drown me.
There was a saying back in the day, before online dating. We used to say, “You got a sister or a friend?” — a way of saying, you’re good people, got anyone else like you?
That’s how I feel about good mental health professionals. When you find one who actually listens — who sees you as a person, not a case number — all you can think is: You got a sister or a friend?
But in my experience, most of these so-called mental health professionals don’t act like that.
Two words for you:
Uncultured Swine.
(It’s still a compliment.)
Author’s Note:
This piece is about stigma — the kind that hides behind silence, systems, and credentials. It’s about learning that real strength doesn’t come from toughness or treatment plans. It comes from listening — to yourself, to others, to the pain no one wants to name. Because healing, like humanity, never fits into a box.
Memoirs of Madness 