Maladaptive Mechanisms

Once upon a time, circa 2006. I couldn't care less about anyone's opinion of me. How I looked. Or spoke. What I wore. Or how I walked. If I was intelligent. Or lucky. The afro sporting, comb placed precariously, baggy jeans wearing, Tim's stomping swagger, walked around the arts university not there to make friends, just to get my degree and bounce. I, simply, didn't care about anyone's perceptions. No interests was taken in who was getting drunk at freshers. Who turned up to lectures hungover. Who slept with who. What drug seemed to be popular. Clearly only administered to look cool and score friends. I had zero fear of missing out on anything. I had a plan. I knew with certainty what the path was. That life, was bliss and I remember it so well. It was before the demons. Before the manic depression. Before I started thinking I was pathetic and wasn't worthy of life. Before the suicidal ideations. I look back at those rosey days and wish they continued up until present day. I wish, I beg the universe, please get rid of mental health affliction. It hurts too much. I can't think straight and it makes me paranoid.

I vowed I'd make no friends at Uni. No distractions. However, I was befriended by a trio of kind hearted, intelligent individuals who saw something in me, that I didn't see in myself. After numerous canteen lunches, many 1am trips to the library eating Haribo Starmix, me crushing on a girl that was out of my league in class and status. I started to see things a little more blurry. I paid no attention to the slowly fading social vision. So, one night while I was out with one of the three friends I just made, at a swanky wine bar just off Piccadilly Circus. My hair was recently braided, blazer and jumper; I looked presentable. We approached the bar, I ordered a rum and pineapple juice. Some people from another course that my friend knew were already sitting on table. We both walked over and said our hellos.

Tall Ginger Girl with Received Pronunciation: Hey, I don't think we've met. Probably because you're from that part of London. She laughs from the diaphragm as if this is the funniest joke. I'm today years old and still have no idea what part of London she was referring to. Strike one.

Aaron: Hello, I'm Aaron, I'm on the psychology course. What subject are you reading for?

Tall Ginger Girl: Oh! Really? Wow. Your family must be so proud. The first one of you to go to Uni. Strike two.

Aaron: Erm, Ok. Sure.

Tall Ginger Girl: So how old are you? You're probably like 26 but look 19. Strike three.

Aaron: No, I'm actually 19.

Tall Ginger Girl: Are you single?

Aaron: Yes, I just kind of got out of a long term thing. Just finding my feet.

Tall Ginger Girl: And you don't have any kids yet? But you're black. Shouldn't you be on kid number three by now? She "playfully" punches me on the shoulder whist holding her stomach from yet, another funny joke. Strike four.

I was openly being racially assaulted with four different misconceptions about my black skin. In less than 2 minutes. And it hurt. A lot. I was being made to be a joke. I could feel my eyes welling up, my hands and arms shaking, my leg bouncing furiously. My friend who is white and male, laughed along with her. Alienation and a feeling of being alone plagued and infected me, paralysing me on the spot. Unable to challenge her prejudices or even defend myself. I was young, ill equipped and now suddenly felt unsafe.

It was from that point I learned how to hate myself. My pride was shot and stabbed by privilege carelessly just like other black lives. These weren't microagressions. These were downright aggressions is their rawest form. I told myself every morning when I got up, every time I went to read psychopharmacology, meeting new people, talk the girl I thought was the best looking being I've ever seen: I'm not good enough, I will never be enough.

I worked hard to get rid of those negative affirmations that led to developing hateful avoidance mechanisms. Countless therapy sessions, boxes of Kleenex, relationships lost. I walked through and at times, crawled through all of that. Conquering them. Finally feeling like I am enough. But they are back. Imposter syndrome is making cosy in my safe space. Digging through the archives. Playing the old scratched records. Remixing them. The album title is: No-one Gives a Damn About You. Featuring the singles: Say it Three Times. Nothing is Personal and, You're Here Today and Gone Tomorrow.

I didn't think I would be back here again.