I sat on the floor in the bedroom and thought long and hard about it. How could I affix that belt to the door and wrap it around my neck to take my life? I was overwhelmed with sadness and guilt and I wanted it to end. I also thought it would be easier for everyone if I wasn’t here.

My single mother had three kids, but our landlord said she could only have two children living in the apartment. She accepted the terms; the alternative was homelessness. Our story was that my twin brothers officially lived with my mother but I lived with a relative, and if anyone saw me on the property we were to say that I was just visiting so my mother wouldn’t get evicted.

I felt like I had to hide myself, not be seen. I tried to take up as little space as possible until I felt incredibly small, worthless. But the fact is I was visible. I was taking up space, eating food, needing clothes, needing resources that our family really did not have.

I knew how hard it was for my mother to find low-income housing. I knew how hard it was for her to keep three constantly growing kids clothed and fed. And I knew how hard it was to keep feeling the shame of living in poverty and the sorrow of feeling like a burden on my family. Since I was the one who wasn’t supposed to live in the apartment, I thought it would be best if I didn’t live at all. So I seriously thought about ending my life. I was 8 years old.

Depression has been a constant part of my life since then. A lot of people don’t know that. Like most black people it’s not something I talk about openly with everyone. I’m already black, a woman, and overweight. Why add another stigmatized identity? Why give people another reason to doubt my capability? Why threaten my professional reputation? Why be vulnerable? As a community, some of us either suffer in silence or keep our mental health issues between us and the Lord.

But our silence is killing us. Health disparities that include higher rates of some cancers, diabetes, hypertension, obesity, and other serious illnesses among African-Americans lead to premature deaths. Physical conditions can often be related to untreated mental health issues.

Race and racism both play a significant role in black people’s vulnerability to mental health distress and our reluctance to seek treatment, Kevin Washington, Ph.D., president of the Association of Black Psychologists, tells SELF. “Racism and our response to it kills us more than anything."

The Psychological Scars of Racism

In the days after the shooting of Michael Brown, an unarmed black teenager, by a white police officer in Ferguson, Missouri, in August 2014, the St. Louis suburb erupted in protests. Demonstrators and police clashed. Military tanks rumbled down streets. Even after the war zone atmosphere subsided, people were left reeling. St. Louis clinical psychologist Marva Robinson, Psy.D., helped provide mental health services for the black residents of Ferguson in the wake of the events. She tells SELF that she witnessed a community that was “traumatized, devastated, torn apart, and left without the appropriate resources to help it rebuild.”

Many of the residents in Ferguson experienced trauma and mental distress, according to a 2016 study published in the Journal of Traumatic Stress. Black residents of Ferguson who participated in the study had significantly higher rates of post-traumatic stress disorder and depression than white residents in the months after protests.