Today we’d like to introduce you to Rylinda Rhodes.
Hi Rylinda, please kick things off for us with an introduction to yourself and your story.
How I got started is such a big question. My story starts at birth. Born to a fair-skinned mother and a black as tar father in the early ’70s. I learned early on to be invisible, seen but not heard. Early childhood experiences formulated my mind and how I put my thoughts together based on the actions of those who were to love me, nurture me, teach me, guide me, and protect me.
I was between the years of 8 and 10 when I had a spiritual awakening, connection, and or encounter with God my creator. He clearly spoke to me and told me that my life was about to change and that I was to hold on, that things are about to get tough but hold on, don’t give up. God spoke to me and said, I would do great things one day, just hold on and know that he is with me always.
I heard the message and said okay and went outside to continue playing. Life happened, constant moving from one house to the next, back and forth. Belonging to no one, talked at and not to. Fearful and uncertain all the time. Never feeling safe, ever. Wearing a mask and danced and toe-tapping to the adults in charge of me.
Abandonment, sexual trauma, physical abuse, and emotional blackmail were my recipe for life, all except that message from God who told me to hold on, to survive, to not quite all though everything around me says quit, die, give up, you are not worthy, hurt, hurt, hurt. Pain, pain, pain. Physical, emotional, confusion, resiliency.
Faith and belief in my creator, making a decision not to give up no matter what. My life has a purpose, it’s my duty to discover what it is. Born a black female on planet earth. That’s how I got here. Born a black female on this planet who trusts and believes in God is how I am here now. Period.
This journey began when I was between 8 and 10 years of age. I had a spiritual experience standing in my grandmother’s living room. I heard a voice from within that told me specifically that ” my life was about to change, things would be rough but I needed to hold on, that I would do great things one day, I just need to hold on”. Not long after that, I was removed from the one home that was fairly stable.
At 12 years old, I was living in West Palm Beach Florida where my entrepreneurship began. I sold newspapers, from our paper route, as well as selling items I no longer used at our weekly yard sale. My neighbors recruited me to sell their baby and children items for a percentage. I also had babysitting gigs. I loved all of it. I would earn my own money for my extracurricular activities. I loved to read and would purchase books. My best friend and I would go to Palm Beach almost every weekend and would pack snacks in a cooler and spend the entire day on the beach.
I was planning my own business empire at 12 years old, desiring independence and the capability to take care of myself and to be secure and not depend on any human being. Humans disappoint. I remember thinking. My employer for my babysitting gig raped me one morning. Creating a lifelong battle of trauma on top of emotional issues I was already dealing with like colorism.
Having a very light-skinned mother and being dark as charcoal, thus being raised by anyone but my mother. My mind blocked out this rape until I was 23 years old sitting in a grief group in the Department of Corrections on a conviction of Manslaughter. A group member was speaking of her own rape, and I said quietly to myself I was raped. It was like I was in some clouds, moving slowly but the memories rushed in fast like a device on fast forward. It took another few years for me to speak it out loud, as the memories started to come together as one big picture.
Smells, sounds, taste. It was weird and overwhelming. It would be more years before I learn that I don’t allow people to comfort me specifically touch me in any way( although I desire the touch ) when I cry because my rapist stroked my face and wiped my tears as he was raping me telling me not to cry, everything would be okay. His name was Frank, his wife’s name was Linda, and their children’s names were Yvette and Sabrina.
They were 6 and 18 months old. This was 1983/84 on Florida Ave in West Palm Beach Florida. I cannot remember their last names. I’ve searched. I remembered Yvette crying through the door, calling my name, asking me why I was crying, what was happening. I remember, thus I believe she does too. I always wondered did he do it to them too. They moved away shortly after this and I never thought of them again until 1996 when the first memory came to me.
Now at 50 years old, I am learning to allow my children to comfort me when I cry. Just typing these words brings tears and sadness because of all of the loneliness. I embrace it today, I don’t erase it. I see it, feel it and move past it, each and every time. Today, I don’t self-sabotage when these types of memories or feelings show themselves. It would be a few more years before I learn that feeling nausea while kissing or having sexual intercourse is not natural, it is not the butterflies as I had believed my entire life up until I got therapy.
It’s the trauma from the rape. I remember at 40ish saying I am today years old learning that I can kiss a person and have sex and not be nauseous. I swear almost my entire life I thought my nausea was the butterflies. After some intense PTSD therapy, I was able to kiss and have intercourse and not feel sick to my stomach or butterflies as I thought. I literally still am dealing with the effects of that trauma. There are times when my partner tries to initiate intimacy and my body remembers the rape and I shut down.
I have learned some techniques that help with this. Being raped at 12 was traumatic, I know that now, of course, did not understand my mind, body, or spirit back then. My mind was so busy, that I had to learn how to put thoughts in placeholders in my brain. Remember what things to do to stay safe, invisible, and out of the way. Training my brain and emotions on how to show up or not. Wearing masks, being a people pleaser, ultimately never ever feeling safe, or secure ever.
Becoming a mom at 17, I wanted unconditional love and believed I had plenty to give. I would be the mother I never had. I lived in the Southeast at the time, it was 1988 and I had to walk down Texas Ave. SE to Benning Rd and East Capital St to catch a bush at 4:19 am to get my daughter to the babysitter on Q street NW and make my way to Georgetown to one of my two jobs in a hotel.
Two mornings in a row, the same car was following me down the street. I remembered thinking about what would happen to my baby if something happened to me. The second morning I carried a weapon with me as I walked, thinking if someone messed with me or my child I would kill them. That was the message I told myself.
Fast forward to 1996 and I am sitting in a grief and loss group in the Department of Corrections convicted of Manslaughter for killing my abusive boyfriend. I remember the message I had told myself years ago, several messages I told myself because no one talked to me, or asked me about how I felt about anything.
I told myself I would not ask anyone for help, you can’t trust or depend on people. I would take care of myself by any means necessary. I told myself I would not let anyone ever hurt me again when I got bigger ( became an adult).
I only knew what I knew. No one talked to me about feelings and thoughts or what to do with them. So all those racing thoughts and feelings that I didn’t know what to do with, I just stashed them. Putting some on shelves in my mind, some inboxes. I developed this technique when I was very young. I remember literally moving thoughts in my brain to different places. I remember a lot of silence outwardly and so much noise in my head.
I had to do something with them. I had anxiety, I wet the bed, I was a thumb sucker, and I worried all the time. I became a people pleaser, an overachiever, getting it done before my name was called. I feared my name being called, it was always something bad. I had to pack and move, I did or said something wrong or embarrassed an adult around me. I could never be myself. I could only be Rylinda in very quiet spaces all by myself. I was always surrounded by people but always felt so alone.
I remember watching my friends and seeing them with their families. I remember living in the house of the Andrews but my last name was Rhodes. I remember being on the school bus and seeing all the mailboxes with my last name on them, but who did I belong to? No one. No one but God my Father. I am 50 years old and still get goosebumps on my arms when my name is called. My body remembers the fear and uncertainty.
Released from prison with instructions to get a job and don’t re-offend. No guidance, no therapy, no treatment, just get a job and stay out of the way. No one tells you that now that you have a conviction and have paid your debt to society, it’s a debt you will pay for forever. Very few job opportunities and in the ones you are offered, you cannot pay your rent, buy food, or take care of yourself or your children.
Punished again, repeatedly although the debt was paid. Image paying your mortgage off on your home, but every month they send a bill saying you owe. You are still paying on a debt you already paid. No matter how many times you show your receipt stating debt paid in full.
Released from jail, a victim of domestic violence and childhood trauma, and sexual assault. Got a job, and got my children back. It’s all a struggle, life on life’s terms. Suicidal ideations, mood swings, depression, and PTSD are all words I was not familiar with, but symptoms I knew all so well.
I was bat sh*t crazy on the inside, asking for help and not getting it. Because I don’t look sick, because I can speak well and formulate a sentence because I have a job and am maintaining it. Suffering from PTSD. Walking around with a sawed-off shotgun in my flight suit because I was afraid all the time. Not understanding my mind and why I feel the way I do. Holding on because I committed that I would. Suicidal and self-sabotaging because my beliefs would not allow me to kill myself.
Lost, but must push on. One day someone asked, what do I know about mental illness? I said nothing, they suggested I seek mental health treatment. When I told my boyfriend at the time, he and his family told me I was tripping, we don’t do that. I begged them to take me to the hospital, but they didn’t. I called the police and told them to come and get me. I need help. I remember trying to articulate what was going on in my mind and body.
They were not hearing me. I remember literally feeling like what I got to do, was pull all my hair out to get them to understand I needed help. I literally stood there and started pulling handfuls of my hair out to get them to take me seriously. This was the fall of 2002, I was taken to CPEP (comprehensive psychiatric Emergency Program) at DC General Hospital. Finally, someone is listening.
I stayed at St. Elizabeth Hospital for 3 or 4 days and was then released to figure it out myself. I remember allowing myself to change the message I had told myself so long ago. I need people, I need help, I need to ask people for help and find a way to trust that they would. I started watching people and wondering how they do it. I learned that all have problems, it’s what you do with them. Mt’s family was secretive about flaws, and personal stuff as most black families are. I did not give a sh*t about secrets anymore.
I wanted to be well, I desired to be better. I saw people everyday living, thriving, and not just surviving. I started asking myself questions, like what makes them different, and how are they able to manage. I watched. I changed my message. I asked for help until someone heard me and spoke a language I could relate to and understand.
I went into a spiritually-based recovery program. I had to be an addict for me to participate. I only smoked weed at the time, but that was not enough to get into the program. It was frustrating and overwhelming. All I knew was I needed this program. It was a 1-year residential spiritually-based substance abuse program. The Fulton House of Hope. I couldn’t and wouldn’t be a crackhead, I remember being told you take 1 hit and you are a crackhead for life.
I couldn’t do dope for the same reasons and plus I was afraid of needles. So I did PCP and actually liked it. It took my mind away from all the racing thoughts, and hurtful memories, and relaxed a body filled with memories of physical and sexual abuse. I was accepted into the program. I was connected to my very first Core Service Agency at 31 years old. I received my first psychotropic medication. It was Topimax. Ah. Ha, the problem has now been identified and the world is all better. I scoff at myself as I write that line.
I received my diagnosis and for some reason felt like I had just won the lottery. I had the answer to what was happening to me. I remember thinking oh, it’s my thoughts and feelings. That’s pretty logical, I just need to control my feelings and thoughts. It took me another few years before I realized that it was more than just thoughts and feelings and that I should listen to the professional’s advice to take medication for the chemical imbalance I have. It took several years after that to get into therapy.
Finally, I was managing my mental health. With wrap-around services and a great support system. More than that it was me holding on, it was me making a commitment to myself to be the best version of myself, it was me sharing my story to uplift and empower someone else. Working for Mental Health Agencies in Washington, DC has been a blessing and a curse simultaneously.
This system which often people say is broken is not broken it works just like the people who made it. Poor people are a business, and there are many who are profiting from their misery. I’ve seen so much misuse of grant funding that is for the people who never see the benefits of such grants. I’ve seen so much Medicaid fraud that my brain became desensitized to it. I remember how I tried to approach tough conversations with leadership about the needs of the consumers and the lack of the resources we were there to provide but was not providing.
I discovered it was a number game to some of them. Literally the poor, vulnerable, at-risk homeless, and mental health consumers were a number. One CEO at an agency told our team during the beginning of the pandemic, we need numbers, go get us the numbers. I was stunned, in shock, and frustrated. This was March 2020 and our CEO called us in to tell us no matter if the city is shut down, he wants the numbers and we are to go out there and get them.
These are some of the barriers we that suffer from mental health illnesses do not get the help we need, because often we are mistreated, and exploited. Just a number of some CEOs’ grant proposals, or budget proposals. Literally, hundreds of people we got connected to mental health services during the pandemic in the spring of 2020 were on another grant by the fall of 2020 to reconnect them to services they never got in the first place. The cycle continues.
Tax-paying Americans will say, you are a bum, get a job, get some help, go to treatment, all alone persons are making hundreds of thousands of dollars off their back while they are still homeless, and or suffering. Literally, a grant was created to reconnect people connected to mental health services during the pandemic when the city was shut down, thus they never got an intake appointment, never got a CSW or any services, and now the agency has another grant to go find this same person (excuse my numbers) and convince them again that really this time we gonna help. This became too overwhelming for me.
I had to find a way to become self-employed so I could one shine a light on the travesties I have witnessed within these agencies, and two to continue my journey of sharing my story to inspire those still suffering in silence that recovery is possible, managing mental illness is possible. I thought about myself being a hurt person, suffering from a mental illness, and didn’t even know it. I thought about all the choices and decisions while unhealthy, while suffering. All of these things lead me to start my own small business.
Mane Rhodes is a small natural soap and hair care business. I am a mother of three beautiful children. My son, Mikhal, who is my middle child, suffers from eczema and boils. I started making salves and creams to provide some relief for him. I also wear my hair in its natural state and started making my own hair care products, due to the lack of quality products for women of color.
Friends and family started asking me to make some products for them as well and told me they would pay me for it. Thus began my journey with Mane Rhodes. I knew I could sell my soaps and hair care products, I needed to find a way to combine or multitask the two things I love doing the most. Making soap, and sharing my mental health and self-care journey to inspire and empower others that suffer.
Racing thoughts was the first bar of soap I made sharing my story. When I designed this bar, I just wanted to show what my brain looks like to me with those thoughts running all over the place. When I cut that loaf and looked at that first bar, I knew I could do this for the rest of my life. I knew that people would get it, could see it, could embrace it, and my hope is that they can embrace it for themselves, and or love ones who may be suffering.
You see, mental illness affects the entire family, not just the person suffering from it. I needed to find a way to start the conversations about mental illness, especially in the community of people of color. I say especially because I live in Washington, DC the Nation’s Capital that has been called Murder City, Murder Capital. Little Vietnam. Where crime and murder are rampant. Now children are killing children and anyone who may get in their way.
My hope is that by sharing my mental health story and symptoms through my soaps and products, they will be a conversation piece. A starter point. I have been vending at local markets and pop-up shops while working on my website and eCommerce page. Two of my best sellers are Dark Passenger and B%#$H get up. They both smell absolutely amazing, but more than that I get to talk about my depression (dark passenger) that tries to kill me daily. I share how I have to put her ass in the passenger seat, or the trunk, or sometimes my pocket.
I embrace her, I don’t erase her. I also let her know she is not driving anything. I still have to work, and take care of my children and myself. My depression is there, and she will just have to go along for the ride because life does not stop. It is not as easy as it sounds but it is a plan that works for me.
When my dark passenger is winning and I start to isolate, and it’s more than 3 days, that’s when B&#^H Get Up is pulled from the shelf and we have a one-on-one in the shower. The scent is invigorating and purposeful. It is scented with Lemoncello, a touch of lemongrass, and rosemary. That gets me on my toes. My soap depicts my real-life experiences.
They are artistic and tell my story; however, there is a story with each bar. It is the owner of the bar that connects with it and their own story.
Mane Rhodes is just the beginning. I ultimately want to create a campground that will serve at-risk populations, of youth, homeless individuals, and persons suffering/thriving from mental illness. I can see campers there in the summer, I can see transitional housing for people coming out of treatment who need a safe place to continue their recovery journey.
I can see the training and education that they desire. I see a safe place to authentically be you. A space where there is no judgment, where we meet you right where you are, where we support you in the way you want to be supported.
Can you talk to us a bit about the challenges and lessons you’ve learned along the way? Looking back would you say it’s been easy or smooth in retrospect?
My mere existence has not been a smooth road. I was born with skin black as tar on Earth. being born black is an automatic barrier on this planet no matter what country you are from or reside in. Born female and black is an even bigger challenge. Now the couple is black and a female in America.
Need I go any further. I don’t care who says ohh, slavery was so long ago. The effects of the psychological and physical damages are evident in the black community right now as I type. I learned early on that my challenges are twofold. Racism in America coupled with regular, regular issues that being human allows.
Racism in America is always my number 1 challenge because it touches everything in my life. Mental Health and self-care were my biggest challenge over the years. Lack of knowledge in my community, and the shame and silence of mental illness keep me in bondage for many years. Lack of knowledge and information and resources is a huge barrier.
Thanks – so what else should our readers know about your work and what you’re currently focused on?
I am a proud Mental Health Professional. I get to take all my traumas and barriers I’ve overcome and be the evidence of hope, and inspiration for others who are still suffering. I currently work as a first responder for mental health crises in Washington, DC. I absolutely love being able to support others during their crisis. I believe it is extremely beneficial for a person’s suffering to see someone who has overcome and or thrives and not just surviving.
I am known for my impactful ability to connect as well as de-escalate situations. What sets me apart from others is that I have agape love for all humans. I meet people especially vulnerable and at-risk populations where they are. Showering unconditional love to them, they can be howling at the moon, have not bathed for months, they can be cussing and fussing, it does not matter I will find a way to reach them.
Sometimes it takes several attempts. I just keep showing up. I have worked as a homeless outreach specialist and on the Opioid Taskforce team locally. I remember how when attempting to engage the homeless population they would speak of being hungry. Like they could not focus or hear anything I was saying because they were hungry. That’s when I came up with the idea to make a meal in a bag.
It consists of a cup of noddle, a protein like canned tuna, and Vienna sausages. beef jerky etc., a bottle of water, a bag of chips or crackers, a dessert, toothbrush toothpaste, deodorant if I have it, and socks and a pair of underwear. When we are out and about, stopped at traffic lights we hand them out to homeless individuals. The purpose is that they have at least 1 meal and a change of underwear, also the hope is that others in traffic will see and go home and make a meal in a bag to share with someone who really needs it.
What matters is they deserve love, compassion, and support. I am known for my ability to advocate and educate any and all who come into contact with me. I leave you with a nugget to chew on or marinate on. My grandparents were farmers. Sowing good seeds is in my DNA. My resiliency and compassion for others are the two things I am known for and am proud of.
We’d be interested to hear your thoughts on luck and what role, if any, you feel it’s played for you?
I am not a believer in luck, good or bad. it has not played a part in my life.
Contact Info:
- Email: Manerhodesnhc@gmail.com
- Website: www.manerhodes.com
- Instagram: @manerhodesnhc
- Facebook: Mane Rhodes
- Other: https:www.coworker.org/petitions/i-m-fighting-sexual-harassment-at-comcast
