illustrated by Marta Parszeniew; photos by Emily Bowler

Everyone who has experienced one can remember their first panic attack. Mine came in my third year, while on a year abroad at UCLA, when I stopped on the side of the road on the walk home from another long shift at the coffee shop I worked in, partially hid myself in some bushes (no idea why) and hyperventilated and sobbed while passers-by awkwardly skirted around me. After calming down somewhat and walking home, I climbed into bed fully clothed and didn’t leave for 24 hours.  ​

As a black person, simply existing in institutional spaces can be a trial. When these spaces are soaked in colonial legacies, and cater to white cultural norms, expectations and experiences – just navigating these worlds that were not built for you takes an extra level of effort and energy that may be invisible to people around you.

The Colour Of Madness is a seminal BAME led & curated anthology, comprised of poetry, fiction, essays, memoirs, and art submitted by BAME writers, academics, mental health workers, artists and those still navigating life with mental health problems in the UK.

Conversations about mental health are never pleasant. Some are easier than others. Sometimes I can calmly bare my soul to a room full of people about my struggles with anxiety and depression. Other times, I stumble over the word "citalopram" and pretend that my antidepressants are vitamins, for fear of being treated like a "cr*zy person".

Illustration by Raj Dhunna
Does filming and sharing the strife of black people harm more than it helps? Rianna Walcott questions the most dangerous black tropes and surveys a history of white gaze on black pain.