LOVE AND OTHER BROKEN THINGS
By Emma Polini, English Honors Thesis 2017
Introduction
The essential element in any narrative is conflict. Literary scholar Jonathan Gottschall asserts in his book The Storytelling Animal that conflict is the thread that weaves all of narrative together (91), though stories serve as portals of escape (57). Why is conflict, a term laced with such pejorative connotations, prevalent in our escapist fantasies? Perhaps the reason writers are so often drawn to peril is that it reflects the realities of life.
Feminist Psychoanalyst Judith Herman reveals in her study Trauma and Recovery that traumatic events are not noteworthy for their rarity of occurrence, since trauma is a shockingly prevalent aspect of human existence. The extraordinary element of trauma instead lies in its devastation of normal life adaptations (Herman 47). Personally, I would define trauma as a distressing experience that surpasses an individual’s ability to cope. Because traumatic experiences are so widespread and upsetting, it becomes understandable why writers tend to focus on narratives rife with tragedy. Though, as I will further explore, a hallmark of trauma is its inherent inability to be narrated, true literary excellence lies in the capacity to translate trauma into coherent forms. Something profound seems to occur—for both reader and writer—when an author is able to give voice to an unspeakable experience. Textual reconstruction through narrative thus creates a necessary therapeutic outlet for an author to overcome personal trauma. As a writer, I find that expressive writing satisfies two necessary elements of trauma recovery: it provides both a platform for confronting the memory and forges an interpersonal connection outside of the individual through textual transference. In turn, this process can benefit both the writer and the reader by creating a higher level of understanding trauma and conflict.
As a survivor of sexual and physical assault, I often found myself unconsciously drawn into the company of people and places that caused the trauma I experienced to occur again. I felt powerless, not only to my attackers—who I largely lacked the voice to speak against—but to the seemingly endless cycle of abuse I found myself ensnared in. A great deal of my pain was aggravated by my tendency to disassociate from my body in times of distress, leaving me blind-sighted as several numb months would elapse before I was suddenly struck with the reality of the event. Writing has proved to be the catalyst needed for me to alleviate symptoms of confusion, fear, anger, anxiety, and depression.
Before I examine the ability of a writer to overcome trauma through text, it is important to understand the all too common occurrence responsible for the destruction of many lives. The nature of trauma is complex. Herman remarks that traumatic memories lack the context and structure of simple recollection (52), barricading survivors from familiar means of expression. Furthermore, she claims that trauma is sudden and earth shattering, unexpectedly disrupting the normal flow of life. These symptoms of trauma correspond to my own sense of it, for trauma creates a separation between existence before and after the event. The potency of trauma alters the mind to such an extent that it prohibits survivors from returning to their pre-trauma state, at the very least until the trauma has been resolved. The reason why trauma prevents the continuance of normal existence is because, as psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk cites in his book, The Body Keeps the Score, another characteristic of trauma is its tendency to superimpose itself on the lives of its victims (34). Herman claims that an inherent element of repetition can compel survivors to return—whether mentally or physically—to the scene of the traumatic act (54). It therefore appears that the nature of trauma allows for the event to trickle in and flood the majority of a person’s life[1]. This interference in normal life development is jarring and entirely life disrupting. However, by forcing oneself to understand the nature of the traumatic divide through giving voice to the experience, it is possible to avoid a return to the past in order to instead create a fruitful future.
Expressive writing allows the writer to unearth his or her darkest thoughts in order to work out the knotty problems of life in safe containment. Trauma can overpower the brain’s ability to cope to such a degree that the incident becomes repressed, but there are ways to access the buried memories and learn how to face the lingering ones. Literary scholar Henk de Berg notes in his analytical study Freud’s Theory and Its Use in Literary and Cultural Studies that Freud coined the term “unconscious” to signify the often painful ordeals humans repress (6)[2]. Freud claimed that humans have the ability to sublimate their thoughts and actions, meaning they can channel culturally forbidden drives into productive and socially acceptable outlets (de Berg 66). Sublimation is one frame in which writing can be viewed, for the creation of literary texts allows the writer to repeat the trauma without actually having to physically experience it again. It follows that writing can serve as the necessary portal to face what even the conscious mind may have repressed. In order to cope with overwhelming sensations that are prohibited by conventional society, De Berg states in regards to sublimation: “even our highest artistic, intellectual, and humanitarian achievements are ultimately expressions of our most primitive urges” (66). Sometimes a writer may not even be consciously aware that they are sublimating their pain through their work. Additionally, the act of writing may be needed to for the mind to allow for the issue to be addressed in the first place so that it can stop interfering with life.
Writers utilize expressive writing as a healthy way to access, vent, and overcome their repressed pain. Additionally, just as the person undergoing analysis develops an understanding that enables them to ease the original trauma, both the writer and reader of a conflict or trauma centered text can achieve heightened recognition and healing through textual reconstruction of a traumatic event. By putting their story into concrete words, survivors of trauma are able to reclaim control of their lives and share this realization with readers. In order for survivors of trauma to begin the mending process, they must first acknowledge and mourn their loss, rather than attempt to suffocate what they fear[3]. Herman cites the most demeaning aspect of trauma to often be the loss of control experienced by the survivor (69). She claims the only way for survivors to resolve the damage is for them to “develop a new mental ‘schema’ for understanding what has happened” (46). For curative narration, creating a new interpretive framework for the event involves confronting the ordeal. Recognizing the trauma and shaping it into words through narrative is the first act in trauma restoration. Van der Kolk quotes his teacher Elvin Semrad in the latter’s finding that “people can never get better without knowing what they know and feeling what they feel” (45). Van der Kolk adds that by creating a narrative, the writer achieves the remarkable process of regaining control of their life through acknowledging their newfound reality (46). In this sense, the simple act of voicing a trauma aloud can prove to be immensely powerful, providing the catalyst needed to enact change. The true challenge of recovery lies in the onerous task of reconstructing the trauma, which is an essential element in restoring control. Herman denotes this task as transformative, stating that the act of reconstruction alters the traumatic memory so that it is can be integrated back into the survivor’s story (201). For that reason, expressing an event allows for the writer to understand it in relation to his or herself, and narrative formulation thusly helps trauma survivors achieve wholeness for their sense of self.
By challenging oneself to metaphorically reenact past traumas through text, survivors force themselves to confront, conclude, or at least provide closure, for their ordeal. In Freudian terms, the transformative act of voicing a trauma can be linked back to his early claim that a talking cure, in the words of literary critic Peter Brooks, “provides a narrative that is itself curative” (Psychoanalysis and Storytelling 49). The grounding of this healing can be linked to another Freudian concept: repetition. In simple terms, repetition is reenacting a traumatic act, which can be done mentally through creative outlets such as writing. This squares with the concept of sublimation, for when trauma overrides an individual’s life, it is likely to be repeated in a seemingly endless cyclical manner, often through suppressed channels. Freud acknowledged the problematic nature of repetition, but ultimately deemed it to be “the principal dynamic of the cure,” since it allows for past desire to be known in the present (Freud qtd. Psychoanalysis and Storytelling 53). This clarifies the role of expressive writing in achieving catharsis: writing traps the event in a concrete form, making it known in the present so that it can finally stop being physically repeated in the person’s life. Freud argued that the job of an analyst—in this case, the writer—is to reconstruct the forgotten trauma with the fragmentary pieces of the present in order to forge lasting recovery for the future (Psychoanalysis and Storytelling 54). In successive narratives, the same themes can allow repetition to fuel the narratives in order to determine the conclusion of the episode. Narrative allows for repetition to occur in a safe and personalized setting that allows the individual to look nowhere but within to find relief, which reduces risk of unintentionally multiplying the distress[4]. By transcribing the event through expressive narrative, this controlled confrontation of traumatic events can be achieved in a safe way.
Herman covers considerable ground in defending and explaining the value of narration for the traumatized person, but there are cases where narrative alone may not be enough. Since writing is a curative process, one might suspect that once the narrative “cures” the writer, the person stops writing. I believe that writing is a lifelong process, and that though catharsis can be reached, it would be naive to assume that problems will not resurface. Shaping a trauma into a narrative does not guarantee complete relief from the trauma—it provides the understanding needed to allow the event to no longer dominate one’s life. The key of reconstructing trauma is not to find a magical panacea, but rather to achieve the peace and understanding necessary to resume a normal and functional life. I thereby find it to be perfectly natural for writers to continue using writing as a therapeutic process for the duration of their lives. For example, the reoccurrence of similar themes in my stories demonstrates that even after being understood, trauma tends to repeat itself; however, by creating these stories I have gained the ability to finally allow that pain to resurface in my text and not in my physical life. Therefore, though I have achieved the recovery needed to live a life that is not ruled by the devastation of trauma, I find it necessary to continue to channel my trauma through writing. Herman offers a very optimistic view of concluding a traumatic event, which at times may serve to be inadequate. The added theories of van der Kolk can be used to bolster the concept of using writing as a source of curative therapy in cases where voicing a trauma alone fails to provide full enough recovery.
To precipitate lasting change, a second step can be made in trauma recovery. Van der kolk asserts: “For real change to take place, the body needs to learn that the danger has passed and to live in the reality of the present” (39). Though the theories of Herman and van der Kolk at times differ, they both note that it is essential for survivors to assimilate back into the real world in order to completely overcome a trauma[5]. Though the act of asserting oneself creates agency for the survivor, public recognition of the event can potentially aid in forging lasting restoration. Victims are often burdened by the dominance of their attacker, or traumatic situation, and are allotted scarce societal permission to share their ordeals[6]. Writing a story creates agency, but sharing the story is necessary in order to cement a sense of control. However, this does not necessarily mean that a survivor can only overcome a trauma with societal approval. Though sharing one’s story allows for the chance for others to hear it and support the survivor, it is realistic to expect that reviews may be critical. This possible deterrent can be overcome through forcing the experience to take form outside of the individual who is suffering. Herman underlines that it is essential for survivors to discover meaning through their experience “that transcends the limits of personal tragedy” (91). She writes: “The trauma is redeemed only when it becomes the source of a survivor mission,” (236). This concept refers to the ability for survivors to allow their stories to impact others and enact beneficial change or understanding, which adds the importance of the reader into the recovery equation. A story—when released to the world—becomes greater than the individual, allowing the survivor to be comforted by the knowledge that their voice has the capability of being heard. The survivor is able to truly gain agency and restoration through the act of textual transference, a process that occurs through narrative exchange.
Since healing is achieved through the recognition of the ordeal, the narrative transference of survivors involves them exchanging their experiences with the world. Transference inherently deals with the process of moving something from one place to another. Noted scholar Harold Schweizer defines it as the route “in which narrative orders story,” denoting that the authority “lies in its exchange” (Schweizer qtd. Psychoanalysis and Storytelling 15). By sharing their story, the bearer of the story is able to allow for an intervention to occur, which creates a connection with the reciprocate of the story—in this case the reader. This exchange also allows for the reader to gain the knowledge that the writer has discovered through overcoming their ordeal, which may enlighten the reader’s views on their own life. Brooks states that the reader’s intervention occurs “by the very act of reading, interpreting the text, handling it, shaping it… making it accessible to our (the readers’) therapies” (Reading for the Plot 234). This enables the reader to forge a connection with the text, which in turn can be cathartic for the writer[7]. Not only does narrative provide a means for a writer to make sense of and release their tragedy, but it allows for the reader to achieve similar levels of understanding in terms of their own personal struggle. People seek to gain an expanded understanding of themselves and the world around them through stories, allowing for change to occur[8]. By reaching out to an audience and sharing their story, the writer has established agency and made strides in completing the survivor mission that Herman deemed curative. Herman further states that the survivor is empowered by their creation of new connections with the world (155), revealing the importance of the link between reader and writer. Herman asserts that from allowing a group to witness a survivor’s testimony, the testimony is therefore imparted with both social and personal meaning, which helps restore agency in the life of the survivor (252). This is how sharing the story with an audience forges a deeper layer of meaning than the story was originally imbued with. It allows for the survivor to shed the stigma of isolation imposed by the traumatic event by discovering a way to reconnect with the outside world. Even if the writer receives negative public reception, no one can rob the writer of this critical act. Therefore, if the writer can find a way to make their story greater than themselves by reaching out to others, a great deal of healing can occur.
This theory of narration can be applied to the following collection of short stories. Each story deals with problematic life situations, and the purpose of each is to impart a deeper level of human understanding to both the reader and myself. By simply creating this narrative and sharing it with an audience, I have been able to understand and dispose of many personal burdens. All of the stories deal with sordid matters, and the characters achieve different levels of possible restoration, but there are no concrete “happy endings.” That is because I do not write to moralize; I create in order to release. After a narrative has been constructed, I find that my pain is able to no longer dominate my thoughts and actions. By creating and releasing my stories, I am able to let go of the chaos that I had previously been unable to voice. I find fiction to be the strongest outlet through which I am able to express myself. The characters and situations in my writing are partially invented, yet even the fictionalized parts have allowed me to channel many real repressed emotions that trauma had previously rendered me unable to narrate. I also included a graphic novel, to demonstrate that there are a variety of forms that can be used to restore agency to disempowered people. If my tongue were to be cut out by my oppressors (and my fingers broken), like Philomela I would find a way to express the reality of what occurred.
A part of my theory that is particularly pertinent to my story collection is the concept of repetition. In one instance, Herman reports the occurrence of repeated victimization, which she partially attributes to a desire to relive the negative experience of trauma. In one situation, Herman refers to a possible survivor situation, noting: “And her (the survivor’s) wish to relive the dangerous situation and make it come out right may lead her into reenactments of the abuse (134).” This is the underlying theory at play for a healthy part of my plotlines and themes. Though my narratives often allow me a chance to put together my words and reflect on what I have endured, I fully believe that the mere act of telling a story provides a lot of relief in itself, because by reliving my traumas through text, I no longer need to reenact them in my life.
I also agree with Gottschall’s conviction that storytelling is a natural human drive[9]. Writing is something I feel compelled to do. Though the second part of my trauma theory—public recognition—is much scarier to put into action, it is vital to remember the truth, especially if other people are trying to silence you. In order to completely restore my agency, I had to overcome my fear of making my pain public. Additionally, Herman’s claims of a “survivor mission” are extremely accurate, for I have found that the most satisfying and long-term relief from pain comes at moments when I have been able to affect other people by telling my story. Lastly, I believe that sublimation is at play in my narratives, as my unconscious seems to filter itself through my tales. No matter how hard I try to write about “happy” things, my writing always reflects certain darkness, because I find that art imitates life, or at the very least, the human condition. It thusly seems only natural for my repressed dark side to weave its way through my narrations.
The first story in the series, “A Continual Stain,” is the only one of the six tales voiced from a male’s perspective, though a female serves as the true object of interest. Subtitled “Obsession,” it explores two lover’s flirtation with sadomasochism, and the ultimate agony that results in failing to delineate clear boundaries. Here, amorous sensations parallel an addiction, presented in feverish snapshots that chronicle the relationship’s progression from a nagging attraction to a full-blown fixation. The second story, “Each Little Death,” is presented in graphic novel form. Told from a first person perspective, the protagonist of the story reveals her path of coming to terms with a trauma; this story also contains elements of sadomasochism and explores the dynamics of abusive relationships, including themes such as submission, ownership, and domination. The female character often finds herself being “owned” by others, making the subtitle of this story “Possession.” This story rather closely reflects subjects I am personally familiar with, though I have blended and morphed characters together, and played with aspects of the resolution. No one character stands for one person in my life, but rather each figure combines aspects of people I knew, mixed with a longing for a “cure” that I never quite experienced. Next comes “Little Bird,” which falls under the category of “Addiction.” This tale has proven to be the most personally gratifying story in the collection, for it has truly allowed me to voice emotions that were quite difficult to come to terms with. In “Little Bird,” love is presented as an absolute addiction, something that the protagonist clings to with fervent need in order to mask her hidden woes. Once again, themes such as ownership are explored, and the cyclical nature of the nonlinear tale reveals the compulsion to repeat trauma.
In contrast to the previous story, the fourth story, titled “Half Moon,” is labeled as “Withdrawal.” It chronicles the protagonist’s attempt to subdue her appetite as she grapples with the choice of whether or not to reassimilate into functional society in the face of existential realization. I was able to experiment here with aspects of satire that allowed me to criticize the values of upper middle-class society, which I have spent the majority of my life submerged in. Though the characters in this story are more fictitious than those in my previous stories, the transition into the latter half of my story set reflects my ability to blend my emotions, longings, fears, and critiques into more fictionalized characters. My fifth story, “Full Moon” serves as a follow up to its precursor, earning it the title of “Relapse.” I became rather drawn to my characters, and I wanted to grant them the opportunity to experience what people in the real world often aren’t lucky enough to have: a second chance. Vivienne, P, and even Adam, are all heavily flawed characters, though Vivienne and P seem broken in the same ways, and for this reason I couldn’t deny them a reunion. I know only too well that the people who hurt you the most often can also provide the most delicious relief. Lastly, I conclude my collection with my strangest and possibly darkest story to date. The story, “Savannah,” is cheekily subtitled “Salvation,” and it verges on the paranormal as the protagonist finds herself consumed in her attempt to stave off her inner darkness and establish a healthy life and relationship. A great deal of this story is a metaphor for depression. To me, it represents a young woman’s subconscious pull towards the darker aspects of life, for by perceiving herself as “bad,” Savannah refuses to accept the notion that she could be worthy of real, nurturing love. The story blends desires as the protagonist is torn between atoning for her sins—which plays on a theme of extreme Christian salvation—and allowing love into her life. Of course, in order to accept love, she would first have to recognize that she deserves it. But perhaps through telling her story—as Savannah does in the italicized portions—she is able to gain an understanding of what she truly deserves. J
Works Cited
Brooks, Peter. Psychoanalysis and Storytelling. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1994. Print.
Brooks, Peter. Reading for the Plot. N.p.: First Harvard UP, 1992. Print.
Camus, Albert. “Albert Camus Quotes.” Goodreads. Goodreads, n.d. Web. 11 July 2016. <http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/51889-fiction-is-the-lie-through-which-we-tell-the- truth>.
De Berg, Henk. Freud’s Theory and Its Use in Literary and Cultural Studies. Rochester, NY: Camden House, 2003. Print.
Gottschall, Jonathan. The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012. iPad.
Herman, Judith Lewis. Trauma and Recovery. New York: Basic, 1997. iPad.
Tyson, Lois. Critical Theory Today: A User-Friendly Guide, Second Edition. New York: Routledge, 2006. Print.
Van Der Kolk, Bessel A. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. New York: Penguin, 2015. iPad.
[1] Herman concludes that trauma renders its victims powerless, stripping them of their voice, status, and agency (47).
[2] Critical theorist Lois Tyson outlines the unconscious in her analysis of Psychoanalytic Criticism in Critical Theory Today, defining it as: “the storehouse of those painful experiences and emotions, those wounds, fears, guilty desires, and unresolved conflicts we do not want to know about because we feel we will be overwhelmed by them” (12).
[3] Herman states: “Mourning is the only way to give due honor to loss; there is no adequate compensation” (218).
[4] Herman notes that the overpowering wish to reenact a trauma in order to change the outcome may lead survivors to physically reenacting their abuse (124).
[5] Herman emphasizes that it is crucial for the survivor to forge meaningful connections with others in order to properly mourn the loss. She states that “failure to complete the normal process of grieving perpetuates the traumatic reaction” (Herman 87-8).
[6] Herman claims that psychological trauma is an ordeal experienced by the powerless (47).
[7] In his essay “Remembering, Repeating and Working Through” Freud asserts that transference is “a kind of intermediate region between illness and real life, through which the transition from the one to the other is made” (Freud qtd. Reading for the Plot 234).
[8] Brooks terms a “moment of reference” that occurs through the back and forth narrative transference from teller to listener. He asserts: “It is in this movement of reference that change is produced—that the textual reader, like the psychoanalytic patient, finds himself modified by the work of interpretation and construction, by the transferential dynamics to which he has submitted himself. In the movement between text and reader, the tale told makes a difference.” (Psychoanalysis and Storytelling 72).
[9] “Story, and a variety of storylike activities, dominates human life” (Gottschall 18).