Exploring the Stupidity of Emotional Dysregulation 

I’ve recently experienced so many fucking emotional flashbacks that it has been unreal. 

I’ve had to delete my whatsapp and disconnect my phone because the very idea of having to communicate with another human being while in this state of mind has been strenuous. Strenuous due to the high levels of just pure anxiety it provokes. 

I should start with the fact that during the weekend I went back down south to see old flatmates and make new ones. But I was just… I completely checked out. I couldn’t process through anything, I was feeling so stupid, so embarrassingly stupid because I didn’t know what I was doing. 

The thing is, what I usually fall back on are pre-existing experiences, copying what I did there so that they still come across authentic and then applying them in a chosen situation. However I couldn’t. I had never experienced house hunting or anything of that nature. 

I found that I was frustrated with myself, my internal critic gabbering on and poking fun at me. All the while physically, my face was completely blank and any affect in my voice was barren. I realised in that moment I was dissociating. I was internally reverting back into that little traumatised girl, having the same emotional capacity, believing that I was beyond a disappointment, failing everyone around me. 

I was walking around with the belief that I was, am, inferior and that I was a defective human being that deserved to die. 
Now, this didn’t start – or rather restart – this weekend, it started about a week ago  (shout out to that boy Bobby Shmurda). This idea had been cultivating inside my own mind for so long and I had decided to – whether passively or actively – ignore what I was feeling. In doing that it had found a way to thrive into this toxic energy that not only effected my own esteem but also the way I interacted with others. 

I am so sure that I’m fucking up every single relationship – friendship or otherwise – that it seems impossible to see a way out. Now, that may just be the depression talking but it is scary and I am scared. I am frightened being in this head space, during which I’ve suppressed so many emotions that now they are coming to the forefront of my mind and just burning there. And it feels so entirely uncontrollable. 

This is what emotional flashbacks feel like. And this is what emotional dysregulation looks like for me.

Because last week was where I was completely checked out, completely numb and dissociating all the time for the slightest reason. Now, I’m feeling excessively depressed, like I want to harm myself in any sense of the word. But in the next two weeks, I’ll be as right as rain, brighter than the sun, smiling all the time, having forgotten what this pain feels like. No longer as distressed, and I’ll be happy. 

until the next time where the process 


Nakedstreetkid out x


STORYTIME: The story of Little Miss Scarface

I find that I have always grown up hating my body.

This was true for me especially after being sexually abused. I remember feeling dirty and just hating myself beyond comprehendabe words. That I wanted, more than anything, to get rid of that feeling of dirt that layed grinning, firmly attached to my skin.

So I found a way.

Something that I used to do from a very young age was scrub away at my body with a sponge.The sponge being a notted lace of mesh-like material, which was – and still is – a very popular method of cleaning the body in Africa, Ghana. This increased with a furious vengence during and after the sexual abuse. I would scrub and scrub and scrub, until the first layer of skin came off and then the second layer.

Essentially, without knowing it, I was engaging in self-harm behaviours.

It was something I did in private and my mum didn’t really know about it until I started getting acne at the age of 10. Which I was so embarassed by, so, what did I do? I scrubbed it away.

And my mum was furious. 

Absolutely furious.
She kept asking me why would I do that to myself, that people were going to see that ugly mark on my forehead and people were going to hate me.

But I didn’t really care. People already hated me, I didn’t have any friends and scubbing away my problems in the past made me feel satisfied, so why should I care? But my mum went on and on, shouting at me until I felt utterly ashamed of what I had done and felt very much that I shouldn’t have done it for everyone to see. That now that people could see it, they would definitely not be my friend.

So, I went into school the next day, with a collection of small plasters on my forehead and because they were too small, I had to place some of the sticky parts onto the open wound. I remember it hurting so much but being proud of myself because I had successfully hidden it.

A lot of people came p to me and asked me about it and I laughed it of, saying that I had skid my head on the pavement while playing outside but at least I was one step closer to being the next Harry Potter. Most people bought that and a lot more people found me interesting.

The long story short? I made friends, my self-esteem grew and without knowing it, I surrounded myself with people who somewhat cared about me.

Nakedstreetkid out x


Misdirected Blame and the Sadness of Impermenance

I’m currently in the process of… Well, processing.

Processing what, you ask? Well, a lot of things I suppose. Mainly that of my rampant abandonment issues.

Someone who has proved reliable and important to me and my recovery has recently left to another country. Which I am happy for her as I believe it is what she wants to do, however, my abandonment issues and I are quite resentful of the fact that she has left. It troubles me day and night that she has gone and has left me wondering if it is any fault of my own that she has left. Which, I really have got to stop doing because you and I both know that projecting blame upon oneself does nothing but destroy your internal equilibrium. So, I often have to remind myself that my blame is misdirected. Not simply misdirected, no, that is incorrect, it is more appropriate to say that any element of blame should not exist in the first place.

There is no one to blame.

And I think that’s what I’m having the most trouble with. I’ve gone through numerous cycles in the last two days (I can’t believe it has only been two days, it feels like decades have passed by) where I’ve blamed her and then I’ve blamed myself. My reasoning for blaming her is that she doesn’t have to leave. And my reasoning for blaming myself is that I should never have gotten so close in the first place.

I’ve pointed this out to a friend, that what is the point of opening up to someone when they’re just going to leave eventually anyway. To which they replied:

“Everything in life in impermenant. To not enjoy and engage in the little time we have alive would be a terrible disservice to our own quality of life. People leave, but that doesn’t mean we should live in isolation, in fear of such prospect. We should grow to expect it and in doing so, we will better appreciate the time we have.”

That friend was my little sister.

I’m glad she said that to me, because it’s making me understand more. It still hurts but as I said, I’m processing.

Nakedstreetkid out x


Paper Aeroplane

When I was a kid, I used to dream that I could glide around my house on a paper aeroplane. The paper aeroplane wouldn’t get bigger but I would get smaller. I would fit in the slip between the folded paper and just glide. I would glide all around my house. From my living room to my kitchen to my bedroom. Hands holding tightly onto the folds, making sure I was tucked between its wings so I wouldn’t fall out. And I would lean from left to right. Past my screaming father, past my emotionally bruised mother and through the open window. Free from the violence and the uncertainty.

Free from the irregular outbursts of anger forever.

This never happened, of course. I would return slowly, slowly out of my daydreams and wake up in a world of frequent irregular outburst from a father who would release his anger through slaps to the face and kicks to the torso. Anger in his eyes and shouts spitting my way. Purging away at my sense of self.

The only place that seemed safe was in my daydreams. In my paper aeroplane, cruising through the thin sky, avoiding the tainted air that surrounded my father.

Safe forever in my daydreams. Only one could hope the same would happen in reality.


Property is theft: Notes to a friend

I can’t believe we found words so sizeably perfect that they can fit on a small slip of paper and carried in our own pockets home. How lucky we are! It is a mere miracle to find phrases so intrinsically thoughtful that for a that moment, we did not understand it’s true meaning at a glance. “Property is theft!” I swear, for the seconds we stared down those words, confused and slightly startled, I could not understand how few words could mean so much. it was a funny discovery.

I have never thought that owning something, could be so wrong. That the notion of not sharing and having something as your own is so overlooked by society that we, ourselves could not fathom the responsibility of property. The responsibility to share. Yet, we rob someone of an experience or an item. And it isn’t something really thought about when purchasing the ownership of a thing. Isn’t that scary?

I think that in a bookstore filled to the brim with books about society, psychology and masses of George Orwell novels, those are very profound words to grace the front of a page. “Property is theft!”

We are lucky to have stumbled upon that cute little book shop with the second-hand rack standing outside.


The Pictures

So, I’m in front of a cinema – you know. Those old, worn out ones which are barely scraping in pennies (presumely) – and I’m trying my best not to be so sad. It’s not the cinema’s fault, right? It’s just that today has not been a good day.

I’ve, somehow, managed to upset two of my closest friends. I feel so crappy because of it. But I’m trying to pretend that it doesn’t affect me. When it clearly does. When, clearly, I’m sitting in front of an old, rustic museum of a cinema and feeling like a crappy friend.

There’s nothing that I can do but apologise another day. And hopefully next time I’ll do things right.

I’m hoping someone will come up to me and say hi. But I don’t think anyone would. This is London after all. We don’t do things like that too often.