From the auction block to TikTok, Black men, through grace and mercy, are still here, but I have questions:
- What is a man?
- Who can define true manhood?
- When, if ever, did we become men in the US?
- Where, if anywhere, can I go to learn about masculinity?
- Why should I accept my father’s views on gender expression?
I live with mental illness.
I do not take medication. I was diagnosed in February 1995 at 34 years old, 125 pounds, homeless, jobless, penniless – and using drugs in the grips of self-destruction. My self-esteem was nonexistent. I lacked confidence, resented authority, and trusted no one. I was a bitter, miserable, and unhappy individual.
In December 1994, I was diagnosed HIV-positive. I confided in a trusted friend who offered three life-altering suggestions: 1) find a holistic health practitioner; 2) join an HIV-positive support group; and 3) get into therapy.
I was cool with her first two suggestions, but therapy? “Isn’t therapy for rich, crazy white people?” I asked her. She laughed and said, “I’m in therapy.” I was shocked but she assured me therapy was helpful to her spiritual journey of emotional healing. I was attracted to her spirit, believed in her transparency, and decided to try it.
Our first session was on a weekday afternoon.
I did not know what to do, expect, or say. My therapist was a 26-year-old heterosexual woman from Bosnia. She was friendly, pleasant, and respectful upon greeting me. I sat down, uncomfortable and extremely nervous. I looked her in the eye and defiantly asked, “What are you going to do for me?”
She paused and then responded, “I am here to assist you with the quality of your life.”
Man, I was messed up. I know now that ‘messed up’ isn’t a feeling, but I felt messed up. I felt unworthy of love. I was confused yet excited. My face wore the complexion of perplexity. This woman seemed genuine. My default personality is cynical, guarded, and suspicious. Yet oddly enough I was hopeful: which also left me terrified.
I do not remember that day much.
But I was committed to seeing where the unknown might lead me in weekly unscripted one-on-one dialogue with a stranger. We rarely spoke about HIV. To my surprise and delight, she modeled compassion, empathy and understanding. My therapist engaged the little boy inside of me who felt abandoned, betrayed, disappointed, invisible, misunderstood, rejected, sad and unappreciated.
We met regularly for three years. One session was in Central Park on a beautiful summer day.
Another session was inside an organic food store where she encouraged me to eat healthier meals, read food labels and take prudent risks. She once asked would I consider being “under hypnosis.” Initially, the idea frightened me, yet I went forward and benefited emotionally from the unconventional experience.
Our sessions began to unearth my self-imposed prisons of guilt, remorse, and unforgiveness. I looked forward to speaking my truth in a private space. But I was uncomfortable examining aspects of my past that haunted me for years: the physical, sexual, and verbal abuse I endured were secrets destined for my unmarked grave.
My image of being assured, cool, and invincible was a mask for brokenness, shame, and terror. I lacked coping skills in my relationships. I avoided conflict, feared intimacy, and lived recklessly. I distanced myself from people who disagreed with me. I harbored resentments when I could not get my way. I viewed the world as cruel, hostile, and unsafe.
Therapy helped me look inward to the source of my discontent.
I learned to stop blaming others for my feelings, issues, and shortcomings. We discussed boundaries, goals, and plans. I learned to celebrate small victories and treat myself kindly. I learned to be assertive with difficult people in unpleasant situations. I learned how to say no.
I stopped using drugs on May 20, 1995.
I stay clean, live by spiritual principles, and serve humanity one day at a time. I pray and meditate regularly. I use acupuncture, colonics, and yoga to help me feel whole. I am part of a community of same-gender-loving (SGL) men of African descent in New York City – like myself – who teach me to embody critical thinking, cultural affirmation, and self-determination in my daily affairs.
At 65, I am a work in progress and feel good inside most days.
When disturbing thoughts or painful emotions arise, I attend support groups, exercise at a gym or in a park, journal my feelings, listen to music, speak with a trusted friend, take a power nap, or watch comedy, movies, and sports.
As an institution, modality and practice, therapy offers a new paradigm shift for Black men in the U.S. Yet, Black men do have a cultural relationship with therapeutic conversations. We chop it up at/in barbershops, carpools, front porches, holiday parties, kitchen tables, locker rooms, neighborhood cookouts, park benches, spiritual gatherings, and wedding ceremonies to foster brotherhood, friendship and intimacy.
“Service to others is the rent you pay for your room here on Earth.” – Muhammad Ali.
God turned my private pain into public purpose. I am an author, educator, filmmaker, mentor, poet, and talk radio host. I intend to break the cycle of generational trauma in my family, be of service in my community, and build capacity in others to grow. Please read a similar version of this article and access mental health resources on my website: https://www.culturalsilencewoundedsouls.com
Mark Tuggle
Mark Tuggle is an author, educator, filmmaker. mentor, poet, and talk radio host in the village of Harlem who seeks to inspire men across the diaspora to evolve, grow and heal.
Images:
Photo by Jed Villejo on Unsplash
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Photo by Dylann Hendricks | 딜란 on Unsplash
