Black, Christian and Depressed: the Inconsistent Triad
Across Summer 2020, different members of the LSE community will be writing about different aspects of their mental health at university. In this instalment, Abigail Williams explores her upbringing and the intersections between religion and mental health.
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“…But I’m slowly beginning to realise that healing isn’t linear
that the storms do pass and the seas won’t always rage,
now I see my mind as a vehicle not a cage…” — Vehicle, excerpt.
I was born and raised as a Pentecostal Christian, also known as the happy-clappy denomination. I was no stranger to deliverance services where the pastor would cast out demons, pushing members of the congregation to the ground as they screamed, enthusiastic praise and worship that could go on for hours, and all-night services where my mother would pass me sweets to keep me from falling asleep when we reached the early hours of the morning.
For a lot of Black African families, religion is inextricably woven into the fabric of our lives. Whenever I go back home to Ghana, Sunday is the most colourful day of the week. A procession of multi-coloured cultural dresses flood the streets as people from all walks of life make their way to their respective houses of worship. This is something that my family, and many others of the diaspora, continue to replicate. Church was much more than just a routine activity for me and, as laborious as it may sound to some, I very much enjoyed it. Listening to different Bible stories and playing with my friends after the service was something I looked forward to.
But there was also a dark side.
Considering how much of my time was spent at Church services, it is both ironic and unsurprising that my first panic attack happened after Church. Picture this: 8-year-old Abigail half asleep in the backseat of the car after a long day of prayer, praise and preaching. To this day, I’m not sure what sparked the attack. Was it the car wreck we drove past? The pastor blessing all the other kids except me? The only thing I’m sure of was how it felt. My lungs no longer worked at full capacity; I remember envisioning a snake wrapping around them, constricting every breath. My body tingled, my palms suddenly wet with sweat, and one thought continued to circle around my brain — I’m going to die.
In this situation, my mother and the other Aunties in the car that night had one gut instinct — to pray. In the midst of my tears, the devil was being cast away and God’s protection showered down whilst my mother reminded me to say amen. From that moment on, I associated my anxiety with the devil. Every time I had a panic attack, my mum would tell me that I should listen to gospel music or pray and it would stop. I remember one moment when I broke down in front of a pastor because “I prayed and read the Bible but I still feel anxious”.
I never fully confronted my anxiety until I was forced to. My first year of university was unlike anything I’d experienced. I was living away from home, making new friends, and though I had an amazing time, I also experienced some of my lowest lows. In Lent Term, my anxiety returned with a vengeance and I was also starting to feel sad. It was not the kind of sad that you can remedy with a quiet night in and some chocolate (trust me, I tried), but the kind that interrupts your sleep, makes life feel futile and causes you to cry without reason.
At first, I tried the method that my mother taught me to employ — prayer, gospel music and online sermons. But it didn’t work. I suppose that made it worse; the fact that it wasn’t working fueled the narrative I had created that I was an awful Christian and the decline in my mental health was because I wasn’t going to Church regularly. I’d equated my mental health problems with punishment.
My friends tried to console me by reminding me that God was all-loving and that “faith without works is dead” (James 2:17) and so it was okay, even beneficial, to get help. But I couldn’t comprehend that. How could a counsellor save me from a demonic attack? In retrospect I’m aware of how irrational that sounds, but my understanding of mental health had been framed almost solely by religion and so I didn’t know how to understand it outside of that.
The crystallizing moment came when I was walking home from a lecture with a friend. My anxiety had progressed to the point where I was experiencing dissociation (a mental ‘coping mechanism’ in which you feel disconnected from the world and even yourself) and my ‘sadness’ descended into depression. My friend cut off my ‘I’m fine, just tired’ monologue by saying “Abbie, I think you’re depressed, you need help.” Again, my reflex was to shout “God forbid”, didn’t he know that we shouldn’t say things like that because “the tongue is powerful” (Proverbs 8:21)?
Once we got back, I told my Christian friends what he said and, instead of reacting how I did, they told me that being a Christian doesn’t mean you can’t experience mental health problems, that it has nothing to do with punishment and that help would be good for me. Though I’d heard it before, this reassurance from people equally religious as myself that I was not a bad Christian was the push that I needed to get help and actually take my mental health seriously.
Months later, I’m still dealing with anxiety, but that’s the point — I’m not brushing it under the rug, I’m dealing with it. It is this confrontation, through talking to professionals, opening up to family and friends, and, most importantly, not condemning myself for how I feel, that has meant that for the first time in a long time I feel completely in control of my mind.
This is not to say that religion needs to be cancelled, because all the techniques my mother taught me to use have been a big part of my recovery and I am still very much a proud Christian. However, it is important to address the stigma surrounding mental health for those of us who grew up in households that were not receptive to the idea of mental health problems, viewing it as a uniquely White experience. It’s not an easy process; I’ve had to reshape my perception of God and unlearn the connection between mental health, witchcraft and evil. Now, instead of focusing on punishment, I find peace in the fact that “in Christ there is no condemnation” (Romans 8:1).
By Abigail Williams
Mental Health Support
If you are struggling with your mental health, the Samaritans offer free and confidential support UK-wide on 116 123.
The charity Mind runs a signposting hotline which is open 9am-5pm Monday-Friday, and will help put you in touch with relevant services. You can contact them on 0300 123 3393.
