As Black suicides rise in Michigan, counselors race to destigmatize therapy

This story contains descriptions of suicide and suicidal ideation.

Growing up, Jonathan Lawrence, 31, never saw men in his family cry. When he fell on hard times, he was expected to tough it out.

When depression and anxiety set in later in life, that left him like many other Black and brown men: hesitant to seek therapy.

When he felt inadequate — that something was his fault or that he wasn't matching up to his peers — Lawrence at times thought of suicide. It started when he was in third grade and went untreated until as recently as a year ago.

Things first came to a head in college, when two part-time jobs coupled with school left him little to no time to rest. A social work major at Benedict College, he couldn't make rent one month, and his car was in dire need of repairs. He figured he could fake a fatal accident.

One night while he was driving home from work, he closed his eyes and accelerated, going 70 miles per hour. Realizing what he was doing, he stopped himself, pulled off on the shoulder and cried.

"I really thought that was my last day," he recalled. 

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In Michigan, the suicide rate among Black residents nearly doubled from 2017 to 2018, the most recent period for which complete data is available. Suicides rose from 5.8 to 9.5 per 100,000 Black Michiganders, according to the 2021 Suicide Prevention Commission report.

That increase was attributable largely to Black men, among whom the suicide rate rose from 9.4 to 16.2 per 100,000. While white Michiganders had the highest overall suicide rate — 17.05 per 100,000 — Black men saw the sharpest increase.

Throughout his twenties, Lawrence continued to struggle. He reached a turning point during a depressive episode a few years ago.

By then a father, he'd enrolled in the Masters of Social Work program at Michigan State University, and was overwhelmed. In a dire moment, he put on all black clothing, took his 9 mm pistol from atop the fridge and got in his car. He drove around until his gas tank was empty, then stopped and held the weapon to his chin. But he paused when he thought of his wife and four daughters.

He made a list of essentials they'd need should something ever happen to him — a sort of will — and went home. 

He mentioned the list to his wife, Nyshell, who asked him to delete it. But he kept it on his phone for three weeks, not knowing how else to communicate.

"I don't think a lot of people understand what it feels like unless you experience it," he said of that period. 

After that episode, he was prescribed medication for anxiety, which he said helps him live every day. He made strides in therapy. Today, he calls his anxiety his "superpower," saying it helps him think ahead.

Last year, he completed his master's degree. Inspired by how therapy has helped him, he's working as a counselor himself.

"I do believe that help along that journey can assist you with not having to visit that dark side," he said.

Today, Lawrence practices at A New Day Counseling in Delta Township. He works with all types of clients, but specialized in helping fathers become comfortable with vulnerability.

Lawrence said minority groups regularly face pressure to work "twice as hard to be (considered) half as good." They lose sleep over getting a good enough education or job to support a family.

Minority women face a double-edged sword, he added.

"You work hard, and now you're a 'B' because you make things happen," he said. "But if you don't, then your voice isn't heard, (or you're told) you're not doing enough or it's a man's job anyway."

Nedra Cannon, an East Lansing therapist who specializes in racial trauma, said minority children face their own mental stressors, like being saddled with adult responsibilities while still growing up.

Last year, Cannon opened her own practice, Nedra Cannon and Associates, composed exclusively of women of color.

"There wasn't really anything else" serving that community, Cannon said. "It's (just), 'get over it, get through it.' "

Lawrence said there's a demand for services like hers: Increasingly, millennial parents are seeking therapy for their children.

Black and brown counselors take therapy into their own hands

Among the findings of a listening session in the MDHHS report is that Black and brown communities often feel ignored in mental health conversations.

"There is not enough concern when it comes to people of color," the report stated in part, noting a fear of being left behind and mistrust of mental health providers among respondents.

In other sessions, people called for funding to go directly to minority health initiatives, like Michigan's Office of Equity and Minority Health.

Cannon and therapist Cyndi Gallegos, who also works at Cannon's practice, said the government has mainly operated by funding large-scale initiatives in an attempt to see the largest return on investment, which can leave minority groups forgotten.

"It's later where we come in and say, 'we are valuable and are worth it,' " Gallegos said. "It can feel like the government has made us feel like we don't matter in those spaces."

So at the onset of the pandemic, Cannon took matters in her own hands and started the nonprofit Healers of Color Collaborative of Michigan. The group, which she said she started out of outrage, aims to provide scholarships for patients who can't afford care and to help providers expand their bases.

"We're working now to get therapists credentialed so we can provide therapy under Healers of Color," Cannon said. "We've got a provider database that we're still growing because we want people in Michigan to be able to access services."

Most of the therapists currently in the database are from her East Lansing practice. 

Among those therapists is Gallegos, who provides both English- and Spanish-language counseling. She's been at Cannon's practice since January and specializes in depression, imposter syndrome and trauma among Latinos.

"When you are looking at access, availability of expertise, there aren't that many clinicians or providers of color in this area," Cannon said. "We're still in a lot of ways unicorns." 

Her office operates on a sliding scale for clients who have difficulty paying in full. In extreme cases, clients are offered pro bono services until their financial situation improves. Every therapist sees clients from marginalized groups and many are trained in trauma-informed counseling.

Though he's in a better place now, Lawrence remains open about his struggles with depression and anxiety. In addition to his counseling work in Delta Township, he helps others through his mental health upstart It'sOK to Heal, where he offers healing coaching, speaking engagements and free consultations he calls "vent sessions." (His website reads: Yes, I will listen to you vent for 10 minutes FOR FREE!)

Cannon hopes to see institutional and government investment in smaller mental health organizations like hers and Lawrence's.

"Grassroots is where it all starts," she said. "Here is where it really needs to count because here is where people are dying and hurting and crying and have been doing so for generations upon generations."

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline can be reached at 1-800-273-TALK (8255) and the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741. Help is available.

Contact reporter Krystal Nurse at (517) 267-1344or knurse@lsj.com. Follow her on Twitter @KrystalRNurse.