Trigger Warning ⚠️: What Happens When You Want To Give Up ?

Before you continue reading this article, please make sure you’re in a mental state well enough to handle potentially triggering content. This might be my most personal article to date. Let’s begin.

If you’ve been reading some of my articles, you might have gathered that I’m a millennial Black woman from West Africa, now living in Canada. That’s the simple version of what I’ve shared on this blog, and honestly, that could apply to many people. But today, I want to let you in on a more personal side of who I am.

You might think my name is “Malyne,” but that’s actually a nickname for Marilyne. I, Marilyne, was raised by two parents who did their best to provide a good life for me. But like many African—and I could even say many Black—parents, they weren’t always the most emotionally in tune. I say this with no disrespect to any Black communities, but in my experience and general knowledge, a lot of Black people across generations, cultures, and countries tend to treat mental health as trivial and/or unimportant.

Living my adult life in a country where mental health is more openly recognized and valued—though still not perfect—I became more aware of its importance. But like many things in life, no matter how empathetic you are, there are certain things you can never fully understand until you live through them: losing a child, losing a parent, being raped, being depressed, and so on. Until 2020, I had recognized the importance of these issues, but I hadn’t experienced any of those tragedies to the fullest myself. Honestly, I never thought my own mental health could be so deeply shaken.

So, what happened? The year 2020 started off well. I rang in the New Year in Abidjan, celebrating my brother’s wedding and spending some much-needed time with family. Then I flew to New York City for my dad’s birthday. I was so happy to be back in Manhattan, enjoying my favorite hotel, sipping coffee in Times Square, walking with my dad under the city lights while listening to “6PM in New York” by Drake. I didn’t know then that a global pandemic was looming—or that those beautiful moments would be the last time I saw my beloved father.

I returned to Canada on January 21st. Alarming news was coming in from all over the world about a mysterious disease discovered in Wuhan, China. The name? COVID-19. I remember thinking, “What a weird name.” I was familiar with bird flu and similar scares, but I assumed it was just media exaggeration. Government hype. How bad could the flu really be?

But the weeks passed, and the chaos didn’t stop. The virus spread so fast that the authorities had no choice but to lock everything down. A lockdown? In 2020? The year I was turning 25? The lockdown began in March, and since I was born in August, I thought, “Oh, this will all be over by then.” I was wrong.

The months passed. As a non-essential worker, I was working from home, playing Gold Roses by Rick Ross featuring Drake. My “20/20 vision” for the year felt like a distant illusion. I was trying to find joy in the everyday until the first blow hit. One Sunday afternoon, six days before my birthday, I took a nap. When I woke up, my left eye was blurry. I brushed it off as nap dizziness.

But something felt off. I pushed it aside and went about my day. Monday came, and I sat at my desk for work by 9 AM. Still, something wasn’t right. I covered my right eye with my hand and tried to see through my left. Nothing. Total darkness. I had lost vision in my left eye.

Panicked, I called my sister, crying. She did her best to calm me down and urged me to go to the hospital. From that moment on, it was one devastating piece of news after another. My world was falling apart. After weeks of tests, I finally got a diagnosis. I feared it was cancer—but it wasn’t. It was something I now believe is worse. Not because I wish I had cancer or to diminish those who do, but because cancer is widely recognized and understood. My diagnosis was a rare autoimmune disease, one without a cure, and especially rare among Black women. A disease that can only be managed. I’m not ready yet to share the name.

While I was still reeling, asking God what I had done to deserve this, another storm was brewing. My father—the man who had promised to walk my sisters and me down the aisle—passed away. In just three months, I lost my old life, myself, and my dad. To this day, I don’t know how I survived. From November 7, 2020, to now, I’ve battled the deepest depression I ever imagined.

From early on, I wore a mask. My doctor prescribed antidepressants—I lied and said I took them. Friends and family asked if I was okay—I said yes. In reality, I was drowning. I tried to escape through Clubhouse. I lost weight rapidly—25 kilograms in under three months. I had always wanted to lose weight. I never imagined it would happen like that.

They say humans are wired to fight or flee danger. But I no longer wanted to fight. I wanted to die. I lived on the 5th floor of a building and constantly thought about jumping. But every time, I realized it wasn’t high enough to end my life—just enough to worsen it. I thought about throwing myself in front of a bus but couldn’t bear to traumatize an innocent driver. I was always thinking of new ways to die.

Death consumed my thoughts—at work, during conversations, even in the shower. I don’t know what saved me. Was it my family and friends trying to guide me through the darkness? The free therapy sessions offered by my country’s healthcare system? The idea of leaving my mom behind and inflicting on her a pain greater than mine? The multiple K-dramas dropping weekly, that I couldn’t imagine dying before finishing? I don’t know, maybe a combination of everything I mentioned. But I’m thankful I’m still here.

What happens when you want to give up on life? Many things. And honestly, it’s more common than people think. You never think it can happen to you—until it does. Today, I believe I am worthy. Worthy of life. But I’d be lying if I said it’s been easy.

At least now, I’m not ashamed. Not ashamed of my disease, even when it feels unbearable. Not ashamed of my mental scars. Not ashamed of taking antidepressants. Not ashamed to be alive, even if life isn’t perfect.

I’m far from perfect. No one is. If you’re reading this and going through a hard time, please reach out to the appropriate resources. Life is tough. And sometimes we wonder why we’re facing so much pain. But really—who deserves it? No one deserves to be sick. But as my former therapist once told me, “You have the right to be sad about your sickness.”

There are hours, days, even weeks when I can’t see the light—and that’s okay. Sometimes, we need to reset. And I’ve learned that it’s better to lose time or money than to lose myself. It’s not an easy task. Balance is hard. So I take it one day at a time—even when it’s difficult.

I hope that by sharing this, you know: you are not alone.

I hope that with me sharing this you know that you are not alone, and that it’s okay not to be okay…

With love, Marilyne ♡