A layoff, death in the family, a violent assault—in 1999, the hits just kept coming for Antoine Craigwell, then a young adult trying to make his way in New York City.

And so, one November day, he inched toward the edge of a Manhattan subway platform and prepared to take matters into his own hands: He would jump in front of the oncoming No. 1 train and end it all. He steeled his nerves—then he thought of his family, including his adopted mother, who’d buried his sister just months before. Craigwell backed off.

“I could not bring this on her as well,” says Craigwell, who would go on to found DBGM, a New York-based nonprofit for Black gay men dealing with depression and thoughts of suicide, in 2013. 

“I stepped back from the platform. I stepped back from the edge,” Craigwell says. 

Despite endless advances in treatment and public awareness of the condition, depression and similar mood disorders are at epidemic levels nationwide. Recent data shows young LGBTQ+ adults are among the most affected, particularly in the wake of Covid.

Queer men and women, primarily ages 18 to 29, have faced consistently higher rates of anxiety and depression during the pandemic, according to U.S. Census data released in December. A state-by-state study by The Trevor Project released last month showed nearly half of queer youth seriously considered suicide within the past year.

“It is still the 1950s for a lot of people in the country,” says Aaron Almanza, executive director for the LGBT National Help Center, home to the nation’s oldest LGBT crisis hotline. “People are anxious. They’re afraid. There’s this feeling of isolation…of there’s no one who’s going to understand me.”

The disturbing trend emerges, ironically, as LGBTQ+ people make strides that were unimaginable just a few decades ago. But despite these advances, mental health experts say young LGBTQ+ people continue to struggle with some of the same issues as previous generations, now compounded by the stresses of Covid and social media.

Add to that lingering homophobic attitudes in communities of color, and insiders say you get too many Black and Brown queer people pushed to the edge, both figuratively and literally.

“If the young Black LGBT person feels that he or she is hated for who they are, then there isn’t a sense of belonging,” Craigwell says. “They don’t belong in the human family, so how soon can I escape?”

A June 2022 report details LGBTQ+ adults of all ages suffered twice the rate of mental health challenges as non-LGBT adults during the pandemic.

The LGBT National hotline saw many of those challenges play out in real-time, Almanza says.

“The height was definitely 2020, March through probably August or September. We probably saw more than 500,600 calls a month,” Almanza says. “On average, we are still getting more calls since the pandemic because people are still more isolated.”

Almanza says several of those calls come from youth stuck in unwelcoming environments.

Data suggests many of those young people may resort to thoughts of suicide – approximately 45 percent on average in each state, according to The Trevor Project’s 2022 National Survey on LGBTQ Youth Mental Health by State. Rates were highest in some rural states like Montana, as well as pockets of the South.

“Adults, they can get in their car and drive away,” Almanza says. “Youth don’t have that opportunity. They’re stuck in a homophobic or transphobic home until they’re 18.”

But by then, some youths are already on a path to a lifelong struggle.

The More Things Change

Growing up in Dallas, Damal Edmond didn’t face overt homophobia so much as a subtle intuition that being a boy who liked boys wasn’t what he was “supposed to do.”

Edmond, a shy, introverted child, internalized his feelings of not fitting in; he would channel his energies into helping others, eventually becoming successful in the nonprofit sector.

Then about six years ago, Edmond, 53, says decades of suppressing his emotional needs came to a head. He started skipping out on church, friends, and even work. Gradually, he fell into substance abuse and, eventually, depression.

“I ghosted on life,” says Edmond, who realized he’d been pouring himself into work to avoid addressing his need for support and acceptance. “I had built all of these relationships that were one-sided. There was no one there for me.”

The sort of slow-burning, subtle malaise Edmond experienced is not uncommon among Black gay men, according to Craigwell, who says many of the men his group serves face not only acute stressors like Covid but sustained stress from living dual lives.

In the years following his brush with suicidal thoughts, Craigwell saw the pattern among the men in his social circle.

“I could hear that many of these Black gay men were stuck in a rut,” he says. “I began to realize that many Black gay men are struggling with depression.”

A trained journalist, Craigwell began hosting mental health forum discussions in cities like Chicago, Philadelphia, and Atlanta in the late aughts. Over time, he gathered stories from Black queer men with no idea where to turn.

“They certainly weren’t going to go to therapy—it was too expensive, and where do you find a therapist that’s going to listen to you as a Black gay man?” he says. “So, I thought that one of the things I’d do is capture their stories.”

The result was “You Are Not Alone,” a 2012 documentary exploring the top factors contributing to depression and suicidal ideation in Black gay men.

Craigwell says despite the LGBTQ+ community’s societal gains many queer Black men still grapple with fundamental issues like bullying, low self-esteem, and religious-fueled homophobia. 

“The more things seem to change, they really haven’t,” he says, naming increased family support as one key factor in reducing queer Black depression. He says that creating culturally sensitive support groups to target youth still forming their self-image is another.

“Some of the issues older Black gay men are dealing with, they dealt with as younger gay people,” he says. “These issues still remain.”

For Damal Edmond, it took hitting rock bottom to recognize he was not okay. Following an intervention by friends, the Fayetteville, NC, man finally sought help.

Through rehab and counseling, Edmonds says he recognized that his pattern of pouring into others instead of himself was destructive and a way of ignoring his unspoken needs.

“What was driving it was the need to feel connected,” he says. “I had a cause, but I found out I was really doing it out of longing and desire for someone to help me.”

Today, Edmond is quick to tell you he’s not 100 percent yet. But he’s on his way.

“I’m in a place where I’m not about doing self-harm,” he says. “I focus more on the here and now, not on the past and the future. All I have is today.”