My Story

Hi, my name is Kashala Abrahams.

BA (Hons) in Creative Writing and Screenwriting, and MSc Psychology (Conversion) Student.

I alchemise complex trauma into archival resilience through blunt, compassionate vulnerability; channelling my lived experience and pairing it with my academic psychological studies so clinical understanding of psychology is thoughtful and well-informed by the survivors; working to reflect, revitalise and reform mental health outcomes so the survivors and the loved ones of the survivors are better, comprehensively understood. My intended cognoscenti (as of right now) is to combine both my creative writing and psychology background in creative/expressive art therapies specifically for children.

The Short Version

I grew up as an undiagnosed neurodivergent child (ARFID and OCD) alongside my single mother whose undiagnosed and untreated highly erratic mood changes, paranoia and (suspected) auditory hallucinations cemented an excruciating home life upbringing where the world ceased to make sense for both of us. Her undiagnosed state presented as unintentional emotional neglect towards me.

My developmental years were shrouded in early ostracism, innumerable social rejections, emotional neglect and major childhood depressive disorder.

Despite my mother acting in her untreated state with increasing paranoia, mood swings and (suspected) auditory hallucinations, especially in front of other parents and the teachers themselves, concurrently with my exceedingly evident neurodiversity, there was a gross negligent failure of safeguarding from every professional adult across seven to eight different schoolings.

My childhood concluded in self-harm, the bereavement of my little brother, and a suicide attempt. I left school with just 4 GCSEs.

An extract from my longer version: Her daily, minute-by-minute yelling, opening the front door or windows to make strange onomatopoeic sounds, and accusing people of things I couldn’t understand. The house brimmed over with constant noise. Silence was a concept I never knew back then.

Fast forward to adulthood

• From 4 GCSEs to a BA (Hons) degree in Creative Writing and Screenwriting (2019-2023), and now pursuing an MSc in Psychology commencing in 2026.
• Overcame houselessness alongside my daughter, born with a severe, single ventricle heart condition, who survived and thrived through infant open heart surgery.
• Expert by lived experience, I alchemise complex trauma into archival resilience through blunt, compassionate vulnerability by channeling my lived experience and pairing it with my academic psychological studies so clinical understanding of psychology is well-informed by the survivors.
• My intended cognoscenti (as of right now) is to combine both my creative writing and psychology background in creative/expressive art therapies specifically for children.

This is only the short, TL;DR version of my life story thus far. If you would like to read a longer, heavily detailed account, then continue reading below.

The Long Version

Childhood, adolescence, developmental years

I grew up in a single parent household with a mother who faced severe mental health difficulties reminiscent of paranoia, auditory hallucinations, frequent mood changes and aggression.

I never met my father. I don't even know what he looks like, what features I got from him. My face, a sort of genetic puzzle with missing pieces.

"I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes; on my face they are still together."
— Warsan Shire

I, being an undiagnosed neurodivergent child, battled ARFID and OCD with no recognition or support, despite my blatant social rejection and ostracism throughout my school years.

In totality, I hopscotched between 2 nurseries, 4 or 5 different primary schools (memory is foggy when counting this part of my childhood) and 1 secondary school. No teachers ever picked up on or simply disregarded my highly detectable neurodiversity.

At the time, I lacked understanding of how to make and maintain friendships; a loner. I lacked understanding of social cues, analysing those around me and disciplining a conscious effort within myself to figure out the basics of a conversation that wasn't oversharing or about topics my peers were abundantly not interested in.

Everyone brandished me a "weirdo," "loner" and "crybaby" either way.

No teacher ever took action to safeguard despite my mother acting in her untreated, undiagnosed state right in front of them. Much less when my mother would argue with them and every parent at the gate, accusing each one of calling her a "hoe" and changing my primary school every year or every other year because of it.

War-like, my childhood and adolescent home was never quiet, instead consumed by the constant nonsensical mutterings and rants of my mother talking to herself, to her (suspected) hallucinations, with such sanguinary intensity.

Her daily, minute-by-minute yelling, opening the front door or windows to make strange onomatopoeic sounds, and accusing people of things I couldn’t understand. The house brimmed over with constant noise. Silence was a concept and a privilege I never knew back then.

I would sit on my pins-and-needles knees, eyes hazed in a trance, my optics hovering, kissing the static fuzz of the 2000s TV screen as I desperately wished for the cartoons to swallow me whole.

I had no safe place.

The schools I attended offered no respite, as social isolation and ostracism accompanied me wherever I went.

One primary school teacher telling me, "You're the type of person who will never have many friends." (I'll never understand or want to understand adults who take pleasure in emotionally abusing, discouraging, inflicting pain and reinforcing low self-worth in children. This is especially heinous when this "professional" adult knew of my mother's behaviour so could easily deduce that my home life paired with my ostracisation/social rejection at school made my sense of worth non-existent.)

Back then, perpetually on the brink, I tried to cease myself from crying, yet to no avail. I was so overly sensitive that any minor upsets (the sorts that most children my age could easily shrug off, instances of a peer telling you to "shut up," for example) hurled me into a flustered panic. Tears blasted out like a bath tap, droplets sprayed everywhere. Distressed yet repressed, my body would surrender to lachrymose as my mouth couldn't express the unrelenting melancholy.

Subconsciously, my younger self was thinking, "None of this is fair."

In secondary school, a girl with no safe haven and plagued with rumours about her mental state, "She has bipolar," I became somewhat of a misanthropic, bitter person; the type of teenager who didn’t know how to be a present and healthy friend at that time (engaging in hearsay about my peers, historically duplicitous and acting symptomatically with my suicidal ideation and depression which other teens dismissed as "toxic negativity"). Arriving late without fail to secondary school, some days 10AM, most days 12PM. Never ever at the scheduled time of 8:45AM.

Circadian late awakenings, eating my Rice Krispies, watching BBC News and wanting to die. However, in defence of my teenage self, trying not to let the tsunami current of mental despair drown her, she would flail her arms around desperately one day, then float the next, at the unmerciful mercy of the wave.

In the midst of all this catastrophic confusion of discomfort, unease surrounding my mother's mental state and her unintentional emotional neglect and at times, even mental "abuse" (feels weird and off-putting to use that word hence the quotation marks) towards me, my social rejection and ostracism at school, and my undiagnosed neurodivergent mentality – the passing of my younger sibling, my baby brother, threw me over the edge.

Bereavement is, metaphorically, a pill-induced esophagitis. Constantly stuck in your throat.

You can imagine, dear reader, that my mother didn't cope well with that at all.

Due to this heartache, I had a suicide attempt at this time and essentially gave up on my secondary education, leaving with just 4 GCSEs.

Adulthood so far

Fast forward, despite the aforementioned, I graduated from university with a BA (Hons) in Creative Writing and Screenwriting, 2019–2023.

Three months after graduating, I became pregnant.

At 21 weeks pregnant, my daughter was diagnosed with a rare and severe heart condition.

Faced with the decision to either terminate the pregnancy, go through with no medical intervention and allow natural death, or to allow my daughter to have open heart surgery and a chance at life, I chose the route of surgery. I am always pro-choice, and this was mine. All I wanted was to meet my daughter and give her all my love. No matter if that may have only been for a short period – I knew I could give a baby with disabilities and/or special needs all the love, patience and sensitivity they deserved.

At age 23, I gave birth to my daughter via C-section in 2024, and in her first few months, she fought to stay alive before receiving her first open heart surgery. She is now thriving; thank you to the surgeons and the divine forces.

During all the ins and outs of the hospital, my daughter and I became houseless and slept in temporary accommodation before being truly blessed with our flat.

Being houseless with my newborn child is what I deemed the truest rock bottom to ever occur in my life thus far.

My newborn, just shy of two months old, was recovering from her first cardiac catheter procedure, awaiting her first open heart surgery, sleeping next to her mother in a bunk bed inside a hotel. She wasn't aware we had been kicked out of her previous residence.

I felt unloved, unwanted and unprotected but knew all my sunshine, my baby girl, needed me to persevere and overcome. We did. We were incredibly fortunate and grateful to have our flat shortly after.

Now a single mother to my beautiful daughter, I focus on raising her with love, compassion, resilience and perseverance; a trait she already possesses from her own health struggles. Unlike me at her age, my daughter will be truly seen and not dismissed or ignored. History will not repeat itself.

Professionally, in 2026, I am pursuing a master’s conversion degree, MSc in Psychology. Expert by lived experience, I will use my story to sculpt a link between traumatic lived experiences, research, and creativity; attentive on altering pain into healing and enlightenment through introspective writing, psychological research essays, and pure, unabridged advocacy.

Now an adult with a late diagnosis of OCD and ARFID, and a patient of Integrative Approach Therapy, CBT, CBT-ARFID and Specialist Psychotherapies; mental health and healing will always matter to me.

As my tagline states, I alchemise lived experiences into healing narratives and psychological research with blunt, compassionate vulnerability; as no person should ever be ostracised.

In the words of Maya Angelou, "And still I rise."

My daughter’s and my stories are the muses for this new legacy of healing.

“I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. ”
— Clarice Lispector

When I'm not writing, you can find me reading tragedian and classic literature and poetry (Wuthering Heights is my favourite); researching Vedic, Jyotish astrology; pilgrimaging and meditating on Advaita Vedanta Hinduism and Afro-Caribbean spirituality; bingeing some random TV series (Usually Grey's Anatomy), staring at my blood-red electric guitar (wishing I could play it); shooting polaroids and scrapbooking; and filming YouTube videos of the work I do on this website.