What is a mask?

It is not merely a covering for the face, fashioned from cloth, paper, or any material that may serve the purpose of shielding us from airborne threats like particles, germs, and pollutants. No, it carries a weight far greater than its humble existence suggests. They delve into the depths of our identity, intertwining with who we are.

Metaphorically, the mask represents the barriers erected by weary souls to protect themselves from a world too often unkind. It becomes the façade one presents to the world, concealing the torrents of true thoughts, feelings, and vulnerabilities that churn within.

How often have we, adorned this mask in our own lives, desperate to shield ourselves from the relentless gaze of judgment, criticism, or rejection?

You see, the world perceives a man named Louis Byrd, as a prosperous entrepreneur, a tireless advocate for change within the community, and a pillar of strength supporting his cherished family. But, the truth remains concealed behind this mask of success and resilience.

In the shadows of my existence, I grapple with depression, that relentless companion that has tethered itself to my weary soul for years on end. Overwhelmed by the weight of seemingly insurmountable stress, my being has become a battlefield of anxieties and sorrows.

As I write these words, my vision blurs with tears restrained, a testament to the depth of my anguish I am finally, publically, acknowledging — while the world perceives the mask I wear, it fails to grasp the depths of my struggle. Though not completely broken, I exist in a state of profound fracture, burdened by the weight of numerous cracks within me.

For many people, particularly men, it is a paradox that plagues us. From our most tender years, we are schooled in the doctrine of stoicism, that inner tranquility and resilience through the practice of virtue and the acceptance of life’s inevitable challenge, and taught to “man up,” to suppress the gentler stirrings of our hearts.

But our life, isn’t it meant for more than survival? Are we not destined to tread a path of true existence, where the pulse of life throbs within our veins, where we breathe not merely to live, but to be fully alive?

I am ready to cast this burden aside. My mask has become an unbearable weight upon my spirit.

Well…here it goes…

At the stroke of 3:12 am, Central Standard Time, my eyes flutter open, as they do every single morning. I often yearn for a profound purpose behind this early awakening, a noble reason like embracing the dawn, engaging in tranquil meditation, or embarking on an invigorating workout. Alas, my body has chosen this peculiar hour, unbeknownst to me, without any apparent justification. And so, I lie there, gazing up at the ceiling, lost in a sea of ruminations for another hour and a half.

By the time the clock strikes 5:30 am, I gather the strength to sit up, perched precariously on the edge of my bed. I draw in deep breaths, exhaling slowly, attempting to alleviate the mounting tension that constricts my chest. This ritual has become an integral part of my existence, spanning several years now.

Within this peculiar timeframe, my mind becomes a bustling marketplace of thoughts, ideas, and many worries.

How am I going to turn a profit on this business? My mind becomes a chaotic battleground where the weight of launching my business bears down upon me.

Fuck me! The mortgage is past due again!? The relentless reminder of the impending mortgage looms large in my mind, persistent and unyielding.

Dammit! Why did that deal not go through? Inevitably, I find myself cursing under my breath as yet another promising deal crumbles into dust. The frustration boils over, and I lament the words that slipped from my tongue, driving potential allies away.

Fuck that, Judge! Fuck the system! That shit can burn! I’m infuriated by the judge who presides over my case, convinced of their biased nature, and their failure to consider facts with clarity.

In the midst of this internal turmoil, I am left bewildered as to why no one ever extends a helping hand, why nobody asks the simple question: “Byrd, you need help?” The truth is undeniable — I am desperate for help, craving support to navigate the turbulent waters of my existence.

And so, these thoughts, along with countless others, swarm my mind incessantly, ricocheting back and forth throughout the course of my days.

Lately, I’ve been having these thoughts that keep echoing louder in my head. Looking at myself in the mirror, I’m starting to see how my mental health affects me physically. Those lines on my face that used to be from laughing now seem more like frowns, and my eyes look red and tired, with big bags under them like a basset hound. No matter how much I work out or eat healthy, I can’t hide this stress belly anymore.

I’ve been dealing with this depression and all the stress that comes with it for so long that I don’t know how to escape it. A while ago, something happened that made me think differently. I was walking along Berkley Riverfront Park, which is a trail next to the Missouri River. There’s a bridge there that goes over the river and has a special place where you can look out and see everything.

So, I stood there, looking at the rushing, muddy river. And then, a new thought came into my mind. It was a thought I had never had before…

Jump!

Considering that I cannot swim, that was the first time a suicidal thought entered my mind.

Although momentarily unsettling, I dismissed this passing thought as mere fleeting imagination, me trippin’ or buggin’ out, attributing it to a momentary lapse in my thinking. Consequently, I paid no further attention.

My routine returned to its usual rhythm: awakening at 3:12 am, groggily shifting to the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath, grumbling at the world, and embarking on my daily activities. I pick up my mask, and go out into the world, smiling, once again, as if everything is okay.

Months had passed since that incident on the bridge. It felt like a distant memory. But one day, after facing rejection from investors, stressful calls from debt collectors, and the familiar sense of failure and rejection, I found myself sitting alone in the car, lost in thought.

My life doesn’t matter. What if I was dead and gone?

Shocked by my own thoughts, I hurriedly rushed into the house, scared of their intensity. The next day, news broke about Stephen “Twitch” Boss, a popular DJ and entertainer, who had tragically taken his own life. Despite his outward success, he, too, had hidden his struggles behind a facade — a mask.

A few weeks ago, I found myself caught in a downward spiral. I poured out my frustrations to my wife, expressing how I constantly felt disrespected by those around me, received no help, and experienced a deep emptiness with no one filling it. In the midst of it all, I uttered the words, “I just want my life to be over!”

My wife’s expression turned concerned, tears welling up in her eyes. She asked, her voice filled with worry, “Louis, is everything alright? You’re not thinking about suicide or anything like that, right?”

Swiftly, I reached for my mask, donned it, and reassured her, “No, babe! I simply meant that I want all the challenges we’re facing, the business struggles, financial hardships, and the ongoing court matters with PennyMac to come to an end.”

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how I truly felt. This suicidal ideation — thoughts of taking one’s own life — feels selfish, like a cop-out because I can’t handle the stressors in life. At least that's what I think. The pain I would cause her. The shame I would bring to my family, and the pain I would inflict on those who care for me. Like many families and loved ones of victims of suicide, they too would be unsuspected of how I truly felt, and what was going on in my mind.

Still caught under the veil of depression. Still, wearing my mask.

Black people in America encounter numerous health disparities when compared to their white counterparts. They face elevated risks of heart disease, cancer, stroke, asthma, obesity, limited access to mental healthcare services, medical care, and insurance, as well as healthy food, resulting in higher mortality rates across various major diseases, including maternal and infant mortality. However, it is worth noting that while the risk of suicide among Black individuals is reported to be lower, it is unfortunately on the rise.

For Black men, according to a report by the Centers for Disease Control, CDC, the overall rate of suicide in the United States decreased by 3% in 2020 (the latest year stats are available), the rate of suicide actually increased among many men of color, including Black men, who according to the Suicide Prevention Resource Center, have a death rate from suicide three times greater than for Black women.

I only know this because I have spent time lately trying to understand what is going on with me. Why do I feel the way I feel?

A recent article published in the Defender, written by Rashonda Tate, entitled “Researched sound the alarm over rising Black male suicides,” includes the following:

“Unfortunately, Black men often suffer in silence,” said therapist Nettie Jones, MS, LPC. “They don’t seek the help that sometimes women will reach out to get. We’ll call our girlfriends, let them know that things are not okay. But unfortunately Black men tend not to do that. They hold things in, they self-medicate, they are workaholics…

Did this therapist, Nettie Jones, a person I never talked to, just read me? Another fleeting thought in my mind.

This silence is real.

When the fellas and I get together, we discuss sports, politics, and our past shenanigans and escapades. However, there’s never a genuine inquiry into how we’re truly doing.

Whenever I attempted to open up to a friend about my real challenges, the conversation swiftly shifted into an unsolicited monologue about “embracing the struggle and grind” or suggestions like “Maybe you should just get a regular job….” It’s as if they perceive my endeavor to build a business from scratch as a hobby, rather than recognizing it as one of the toughest jobs out there. While I understand their intentions, I can’t help but feel belittled.

So, in the presence of my friends, I continue to wear my mask. I return to the “grind” and navigate through it all on my own.

Mental health, as defined by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), encompasses our emotional, psychological, and social well-being. It plays a crucial role in shaping our thoughts, emotions, and behaviors.

Moreover, it significantly influences our ability to cope with stress, establish relationships, and make positive decisions. Throughout our lifespan, from childhood and adolescence to adulthood, mental health holds the utmost significance.

On the other hand, behavioral health pertains to the specific actions individuals take. It revolves around how people respond to different situations. Individuals’ mental health can significantly impact their behavioral health, influencing their responses and actions in various scenarios.

For Black Americans struggling with poverty, the places we call home can lack the essential things we need to thrive. We may find ourselves without proper healthcare nearby, leaving us with limited options for caring for our physical and mental well-being. The places where we live may not have enough spaces for us to relax and enjoy ourselves, or the opportunities to learn and grow that others may take for granted. All of these things can make our existing mental health challenges even harder to handle, trapping us in a cycle that keeps us from getting better.

But it doesn’t stop there. The unfairness in how our neighborhoods are built also means that we’re often exposed to more stress and danger from our environment. When you’re facing tough times, it’s common to end up in areas where pollution fills the air we breathe, where our homes may not be up to standard, and where our neighborhoods don’t feel safe. Living in these conditions day in and day out can pile on the pressure, leading to constant stress, anxiety, and other mental health problems that weigh us down.

And let’s not forget about the painful legacy of racism and discriminatory planning that has shaped our communities for generations. Because of these unjust practices, poverty and limited resources have become concentrated in neighborhoods that are mostly made up of Black people. It’s a deliberate act of keeping us apart and neglecting our needs. This ongoing segregation and disregard only deepen our mental health disparities.

I am aware, without a doubt, that a significant part of my mental health struggles stem from the environment I find myself in. It saddens me, even more, to realize that I have exposed my own children to these challenges. You see, I grew up not too far from where my family resides now. I still remember the piercing sirens, the sounds of gunshots echoing in the air, and the overwhelming neglect surrounding us. It was a constant reminder of disinvestment and disregard.

Now, my children, aged eight and six, are posing the same questions I once asked my own mother. They innocently inquire, “Daddy, why does our neighborhood look like it’s in ruins while Owen’s neighborhood is so clean?” Or they express their fear, saying, “Daddy, can we go somewhere else for New Year’s? I’m scared of the sound of guns.”

It pains me to hear these words from their mouths. I want to shield them from the harsh realities that surround us. I want them to grow up in a place filled with hope and promise, rather than decay and danger. Their questions and fears reflect the profound impact that the environment can have on a child’s sense of safety, well-being, and overall mental health.

As a father, it becomes my responsibility to navigate these difficult conversations and find ways to provide a sense of security and stability in an environment that often lacks it. My duty is to instill in them a belief that change is possible, that they have the power to shape their own destinies, and that they are not defined by the circumstances they were born into.

However, how am I expected to carry out these aspirations sincerely and wholeheartedly when it feels nearly impossible to demonstrate to my children that change is possible? Despite the abundance of potential, ideas, skills, and degrees I possess, it often seems that none of these matter because external forces beyond my control dictate the course of my life.

I may strive to become a homeowner, but I have no control over our city government’s decision to raise our taxes by a staggering 30%. Now, there looms a genuine threat that we may be forced out of our home simply because we cannot afford the inflated mortgage.

I can pour my energy into building and designing technology solutions that hold the potential to benefit numerous individuals. However, I cannot control the fact that investors fail to recognize the brilliance behind my ideas. Instead, they view me solely as a risk due to being a Black founder, someone who does not fit their preconceived notion of the typical white founders they are accustomed to supporting.

I can invest time and effort in writing letters to the Mayor, expressing my concerns, and presenting viable solutions to address the crime and deterioration plaguing my neighborhood. Yet, I have no control over the unfortunate reality that these letters go ignored, and things continue to operate business as usual, disregarding the urgent need for change.

While I may meticulously compose a well-crafted motion or pleading, I am powerless to control the inherent bias that may exist within a Judge who harbors preconceived notions against self-represented litigants and the prevailing norms of the legal profession.

I have the ability to write an article expressing my feelings of being undervalued and unappreciated as a Black man. However, I have no control over the unfortunate reality that someone might misunderstand my words and misinterpret them, leading to my thoughts being weaponized within the realm of cancel culture. There is a risk of being criticized as a cis-gendered man complaining about his privilege, thereby diminishing the struggles of others.

I could conform and “get a regular job,” but I have no control over the unfair compensation, lack of respect, and the absence of an inclusive environment that would allow me to express my true self. The unfortunate reality is that the moment I dare to be my authentic self, I risk being perceived as a threat.

It is disheartening to face these obstacles, as they threaten to undermine my ability to make a difference in the lives of my children and our community. It becomes increasingly challenging to impart the belief that we can shape our own destinies when the forces working against us seem insurmountable.

Then we consider the fact that I am not only raising children, but I am specifically raising two Black boys who will eventually become Black men. The weight of the historical hatred and prejudice directed towards Black men feels overwhelming on its own, let alone when combined with everything else I mentioned earlier.

However, these are discussions that we, as Black fathers, do not engage in frequently enough. While we do acknowledge the necessity for “The Talk” and the shared trauma that comes with preparing our children for the challenges they will face, we often fail to have open conversations about how these factors genuinely impact our mental well-being.

I share this with you because I can no longer bear the weight of hiding behind a façade. I am worn out from forcing smiles and pretending that everything is fine when in reality, it is far from it.

I refuse to let my boys grow up emulating their father in one aspect: suppressing their true emotions. I want them to acknowledge their feelings and learn how to express them constructively. I want them to have the humility to admit when they need assistance and ask for help without hesitation.

These are the values instilled in me as a child — being told that a closed mouth doesn’t receive, while simultaneously being taught to handle things on my own and never show vulnerability. It’s a conflicting message, one that I find myself embodying and unintentionally passing down to the next generation.

It is time for a change. I strive to break free from this cycle of contradictory messaging. I want my children to witness their father embracing vulnerability, openly expressing his struggles, and seeking support when necessary. I want to teach them that it is not a sign of weakness but rather an act of strength to acknowledge and confront our challenges.

Despite this feeling of ongoing stress, and sometimes I feel that the world is against me, my wife keeps me grounded, and she is and has always been supportive through it all. My children show me love by forcing their jovial disposition on me, even when Daddy is in one of his moods, or they draw my pictures of hearts saying, “I love you Daddy!”

These things keep me focused on why I need to be here.

By sharing this, I aim to foster a culture of authenticity, where it is acceptable to show vulnerability and ask for help. I hope that my transparency will serve as an example to my boys, empowering them to navigate their own journeys with emotional intelligence and a willingness to seek the support they need.

I share this with you because I want you to realize that you are not alone in your struggles. Even though it may seem like nobody truly comprehends what you’re going through, I want you to find solace in the fact that the author of this article/love letter understands and empathizes with you, for he shares a similar experience.

To those readers who may not completely relate to what I have expressed here, I still urge you to reach out to your friends, family, and neighbors. Take the time to inquire about their well-being genuinely and, if feasible, extend your support beyond empathy by acting compassionately in offering assistance. This small gesture can undeniably serve as a lifeline for someone in need.

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My name is Louis Byrd, Founder and Chief Visionary Officer of Zanago.

Remember, change happens by design…