Black Women, You Deserve Rest Too
Rest…. How many of us take the time out to do it? Even Jesus rested. But us?
Nah. It sounds good, but can be extremely difficult, seemingly impossible at times for us Black women.
Black women are the masters of multitasking; taking care of family, home, relationships, work deadlines and/or obligations, school, and more. We often place a lot on our plates… the daily tasks, responsibilities, and commitments become a juggling act. With the added element of avoiding being perceived as angry or intimidating (by our male counterparts or damn near anyone), everything can become a lot.
We live in a society that doesn’t respect or appreciate us but is trying so hard to become us. From emulating our style, cosmetically enhancing our natural, physical attributes, and the dialect we have when we speak; they’ll do anything except pull some of the weight and lift these heavy burdens. Sometimes it can feel as though we as Black women are holding the world on our shoulders.
Juggling the many roles we play and hats we wear, it’s easy for us to put ourselves last on our priority lists.
Even when our bodies are at rest, our minds seldom are.
As someone with Chronic Insomnia, I should be the last person preaching to anyone about rest. On a good night, I’m lucky if I get three hours of sleep, and even then, I’m probably exaggerating.
I won’t lie, a lot of my hang-ups when it comes to sleep stem from anxiety The anxiety of something happening if I go into a deep sleep and I’m unable to react in time. I used to check all the windows and doors of our apartment as a child and got creepy close to my loved one's faces when they were sleeping just to make sure they were still breathing. Psychotic? Probably but I just wanted to make sure that nothing bad happened on my watch.
Self-care can seem like a luxury; oftentimes we don’t feel worthy of taking care of ourselves. We are depleted. We are tired.
Our pride won’t allow us to even give voice to any other adjective or emotion that diminishes our strength and our light. As a Black woman, I feel like we would rather suffer in silence than to let anyone see us sweat, let alone have a single strand of hair out of place.
We can “make a dollar out of 15 cents” and still come back with change leftover. We are magic. We are resilient. We can do anything we put our minds to, but rest. We don’t know how to allow ourselves to do that. Our lack of rest, our lack of peace, and our lack of sanity is killing us.
The First Panic Attack
I remember the first time I had a panic attack. It was a result of doing too damn much. Trying to take care of everyone but myself. The day that this happened was a typical Thursday afternoon. My kids were sitting in their chairs enjoying a snack when the attack came on. You couldn’t tell me I was not dying. My chest felt like it was caving in and my heart rate was skyrocketing. I was so alarmed that I called 911 and told them that I could be having a heart attack.
I spent hours in the ER hooked up to a heart monitor. The attending doctor ordered multiple tests including blood work. I watched my heart rate go up and down to dangerous levels and prayed that things would turn around quickly. I even requested from the nurse taking my blood pressure to pray for me-she whispered she would. After that, every time she entered the room, I'd ask if she had heard any news. I then asked, “Am I having a heart attack?!” She said, “No, but if you don’t calm down, you will.” Calm down? How could I?
As if that weren’t scary enough, I started to vomit uncontrollably and had the most horrible thoughts. I wanted to give up and even started planning my funeral in the hospital bed, but my stubbornness wouldn’t allow it. I prayed again and again then started to focus on my breathing. I started chanting, “You are that bitch, you ain’t going out like this. You got this! Bitch, breatheeeee.” And I did.
The Wake Up Call
Several minutes later, the Cardiologist delivered good news. That this was not heart-related; I had a bad panic attack. Responding in a prideful tone, I reply, “You mean to tell me I’m at the ER for a panic attack?! How embarrassing.” He said, “If you didn’t collect yourself and steady your breathing the way you did, you could have had a heart attack. Your heart rate was quickly approaching dangerous levels. We were all concerned. You have a lot on your plate, and you have to take it easy, or the next time you land back here, your result could be different.” Talk about a wake-up call.
The point I’m making is this… Black women, we’re dying a slow death, earlier than expected. Life is short as hell, but let's enjoy the ride. Be intentional about the way you spend your time. Pause. Reset. Unplug. Recharge.
