BLACK GIRLS Don't Commit

By Jaymee Vee

Nylah has always felt like the glue keeping her small family together. As the weight of having to be someone she isn’t gets heavier, her mental health takes a turn and is swept under the rug by those who are supposed to protect her. Her struggles grow deeper as she fights to save herself. Little does she know, there are other people, just like her, who also need saving. In this story of the silenced mental health truths of Black girls, will this be another sad story that goes unnoticed? Or will Nylah rewrite her own narrative?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781637843321

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BLACK GIRLS Don't Commit

Jaymee Vee

ISBN 978-1-63784-335-2 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-63784-332-1 (digital)

Copyright © 2024 by Jaymee Vee

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Freshman Year

Chapter 1

An Adolescent Crisis

Chapter 2

The New Girl

Chapter 3

You're Not Really Black

Chapter 4

Pride

Sophomore Year

Chapter 5

You're Sure It Happened Like That?

Chapter 6

A Burden

Junior Year

Chapter 7

We Don't Go to Therapy

Chapter 8

Hopeful

Chapter 9

We Gotta Stick Together

Senior year

Chapter 10

The Beginning of the End

Chapter 11

Faye's Finale

Chapter 12

Black Girls Don't Commit Suicide

Acknowledgments from the Author

About the Author

Part 1

Freshman Year

Chapter 1

An Adolescent Crisis

Iwill never understand why we had to move to Nebraska. Sure, I was unhappy in Virginia, but that was where I grew up. We had a cute, one-story brick house in a cul-de-sac just outside of Richmond. I used to ride my bike around the neighborhood and see my friends. I could walk through the woods a half mile to school every day, leaving footprints in the morning dew and listening to robins sing their morning songs with my brother. We had a huge backyard with an apple tree, which housed too many bees that I was allergic to. Life was simple, boring, and decent. I know that now.

My parents divorced around the time I turned eleven. But, if you ask me, their marriage was doomed for as long as I can remember. I mean, I didn't know much as a kid, but I assumed that yelling at each other and sleeping in different bedrooms meant that they weren't exactly happily married. But when they split up, my brother and I did too.

He was a mama's boy. I don't know whether to blame it on his autism or the fact that he just loved our mom. Nonetheless, he chose to live with her and stay in our cozy home. I chose to live with my narcissistic father. I understood from a young age that my mom didn't want me, not now and not when I was born.

My dad was the lesser of two evils, even though I knew that we would be moving. I knew he was a narcissist. And still, in the courtroom during my parents' final divorce hearing, I made my choice. I felt like if I stayed with my dad, since my brother chose our mom, our family wouldn't break up entirely. In my mind, the ideal situation meant that my brother and I would speak, which would bridge the large gap between the two households. Besides, I always wanted to be a daddy's girl.

My dad gave me whatever I wanted. I was always so appreciative, even though I never asked for much. All I really wanted to do was play volleyball, read, and hang out with my friends. All of which I was given without asking and without question as long as I excelled. I was good at volleyball, I was a good student, and I had levelheaded, smart friends. I was an overall good kid, so it didn't surprise anyone that I always got what I wanted and what I needed. Kind of.

My dad's love was conditional. I realized at a young age that he was either trying to relive his childhood through me or that he needed instant and constant validation whenever he gave me something or did something for me. I was his token child, his proof of good parenting. He would parade me around when I did something good, won an award, or was acknowledged for any one of my accomplishments.

But when I came second, when my team didn't win, or even if I was having a bad day, all hell would break loose. He would take back what he gave me. And if he couldn't take it back physically, something like kind words or a tournament payment, he would throw it back in my face. He would say things like, You guys lost because you're lazy, or I wish I wouldn't have paid for that lousy performance, and my favorite, You should have worked harder.

One year, around the age of seven or eight, I was invited to a youth volleyball camp. I was taller than the other girls, and a city coach had seen a level of athleticism that many eight-year-old children didn't have yet. My dad paid for the camp and accompanied me. I was so nervous. I could barely get my kneepads on that morning, let alone receive a serve during the scrimmage. Needless to say, as a nervous second grader, I did not perform very well.

Now, I was unaware of performance levels at the time. I did the best I could. I was told by many coaches that I had talent and was given advice on what to work on. However, after the camp, my dad was nowhere to be found in the gymnasium. I asked one of the other parents if they had seen the man I came with, and they told me he had walked outside in the third set of the scrimmage and had not come back.

After changing, saying my goodbyes, and taking cards and fliers from coaches, I went to find where my dad parked our car outside. When I got in the truck, he took the Beats headphones from around my neck, broke them in half, and said, That was embarrassing. I had to sit there with other parents' eyes on me, probably wondering why I brought my daughter to this camp to perform like that. This moment was when I realized that my dad's love was conditional. He truly seemed to hate me in that moment for the perceived embarrassment that I caused.

Years later, my dad forgot to pick me up from the airport after returning from a weekend tournament