The Girl Who Died in the Tent

Every emotion carries a character of its own. More than that, they are archetypal forces, competing, collaborating, and conspiring to keep us safe. They are the reactions to our thoughts, letting their energy surface before it sinks and weighs us down.

Behind closed eyes, my emotions took form, figures of colour and shape jostling for space in the hidden architecture of my mind. At the centre sat a bright yellow spark, her hands constantly gripping the controls. That spark was named Joy. She thought she was the hero of my story, the one who must keep me smiling, no matter the storms raging outside.

My mind-world was powered through moments of lived feelings, memories glowing in shades of the feelings that made them. Joy was determined to keep them golden.

Then life pulled a lever I didn’t see coming.

When my illness hit, it wasn’t just a story of pain; it was an era of collapse. It brought the deepest suffering. I lived inside a fusion of helplessness and hopelessness. They became companions, merging into one of the darkest states of despair.

My eternal guardian was thrown out of the control room. She was no longer there, spinning laughter into every memory; she was gone. The alarms blared inside me like red sirens: Code Lost Joy.

My confidence, certainty, and belonging crumbled one by one into the dark pit below.

I tried everything to escape, not from the psychological storm, but from the relentless physical pain I was experiencing. At the time, I didn’t realise the root of that suffering was the mountain of unexpressed emotions I had buried, a result of giving the entire command to Joy.

In the absence of my golden spark, Fear tried to take over, Anger slammed his fists on the panel, and Disgust rolled her eyes at everything I became. And Sadness… she just sat there, blue and heavy, her hands trembling as she touched the controls. I wanted to scream at all, You are ruining everything.

But the truth? They were the only ones brave enough to stay.

Back then, even the most absurd ideas seemed worthy of giving it a go.

I remember one day like it was yesterday.

We wandered through Portobello Road Market with friends as I fought to keep my head high, to walk without faltering. Every step consumed every ounce of strength as I tried to hide the shame smirking at me inside. People who noticed the way I walked assumed I was drunk or about to faint. I despised the nosy ones who couldn’t resist asking which was true. But among them was someone different, someone whose interest wasn’t in satisfying curiosity, but in helping.

Helpless and desperate, I followed her promise all the way to a remote corner of northern England, chasing a cure she offered in Portobello.

The “cure” offered there?

It was a cleanse to my subconscious through magic mushroom ceremonies, releasing all the emotions I had locked away for good.

They believed that illness grows when energy stagnates, when emotions are trapped and never given air.

I’d experienced plant medicine before, ayahuasca in particular, but this was unlike anything else.