My first suicidal thought stemmed from the continual poverty, violence, and abuse I saw in my neighborhood creeping into the safe space of my home. I felt like I had no control, and the only way I could make it all stop was by my own hand; my own blood, I think I was about 8 years old.
But unlike a lot of black boys, I was never taught to hold in my emotions, especially the negative ones, so I cried a lot. For big things, for little things, if I was sad or angry, it didn't matter. Crying was how I coped, which is a very normal response when you feel your emotions intensely.
So you can understand my surprise when I stepped out into the world as a young adolescent turning into a man, and I realized how much crying as a man, especially as a black man, is frowned upon. Society taught me to swallow my tears; you can't display any emotion other than glee or anger as a man, no matter how intense your emotions are. Even then, you might get hit with a "niggas die every day b" or a "men used to die at war". My main coping mechanism was siphoned, so I turned to other ways of coping. Nothing ever did the job better than crying, but I couldn’t do that anymore; the call of “manhood“ was beckoning me.
I’ve isolated, punched walls, cut myself, and done much self-harm in the name of coping, all because I felt that there was no room for me to cry in. Thank God for therapy, which taught me a lot about myself and all the different ways to cope. I’m grateful to say I haven’t done any physical self-harm for about 2 years now. I’ve worked to cope better, but like any human with habits, transmuting them is hard.
On June 21st, 2025, after a violent dispute between my mom and pops, which I was present for, it turned physical between him and me. I was arrested. For context, my Dad is known to abuse both drugs and women, and at the time, was under the influence. I was only trying to defuse the situation peacefully. Still, he initiated, and eventually I had to throw a punch just to keep him away from me and the rest of the family. A fight between us then ensued.
Although no charges stuck and the arrest never resulted in a trial, I still had to spend the entirety of that day in a holding cell, only leaving to get my injuries tended to. This whole experience triggered a lot of those intense emotions. I defended myself against the man who helped create me, named me after himself, and almost completely lost my liberties for it. Young me would’ve just cried it out, but every time I tried, I couldn’t find it. Eventually, I stopped denying myself that human right to express my emotions. I cried a lot of tears, but I only ever felt comfortable doing so in solitude, a sentiment with which many other men and I can resonate.
It’s been just over a year now, though I'm still dealing with the remnants of that day. I thought I’d share my story, or at least document it.
For anyone who has experienced abuse and has struggled to cope with it, for anyone struggling with mental health, especially for my black men, and for me, to get it out so it doesn’t eat me alive.
As a man, if you gotta cry, then do it.
Healing properly is necessary to grow back stronger.
Happy Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month. I hope all my niggas prosper.
-kay
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