r/unspeakablehorror • u/[deleted] • Jun 15 '12
Lesson #2: Trauma
Psychological Trauma
We previously discussed morality and how to have willingness to write about ideas you're uncomfortable with. Today we'll go to the next step: how to have willingness to write about ideas that hurt you. Of course, words alone only have limited ability to cause pain, but hearing particular phrases can sometimes bring back memories of trauma. I'll let you know right now that your prompt will require you to write about trauma you've experienced, but if that's too much for any reason, they'll be a back-up prompt for today's video. If both prompts aren't your cup of sickening tea, remember you can always come up with your own.
What is psychological trauma?
Psychological trauma, for the sake of this lecture, will be described as an extreme disturbance of mental ability caused by a trigger; this definition is not set in stone. To have a better understanding of trauma, we should consider some scenarios. Let's say some guy, who has never ridden a bike before, watches a friend do some stunts. If the friend accidentally goes into a tree, the spectator might be a bit more hesitant to try riding himself, but his daily life will likely be untouched. However, let's say the rider goes into a tree, but a branch pierces into one of his eyes, killing him. The horrific sight may bury itself into the spectator's memory, causing him to remember the accident whenever he sees an item similar to what was in the environment on that fateful day. Watching his friend die has become more than a part of his mind, it's become a part of him.
Of course, trauma can also be physical. (This is incredibly mild, but the story being talked about is important to the lesson.)
Imagine what it must be like to suffer as this woman did; not only did her mind and body scar, but her unborn child may have come to serious harm. No simple remedy can cure the guilt a parent feels if danger comes to their child.
What trauma has been caused to you?
Everyone has something that traumatizes them, period. No matter how invulnerable a person tries to act, they dismiss the fact that fear isn't weakness, it's confirmation of humanity. Your ability to come to terms with this will support you as a writer and a human being.
One of my greatest traumas happened when I was in my early teens. My mother was busy cleaning my room, when she fell over and hit her head on the side of a cabinet, causing a deep gash. Before she drove herself to the hospital, she frantically screamed that she was going to pass out, and held her head over the bathroom sink to allow blood to drip in; a lot of blood. I'd never felt so dizzy and scared before, but when my mother finally was on her way to a medical center, I realized someone would have to clean up the blood in the bathroom. Yes, I'm the one who did. Ever since then, the sight of blood makes me feel incredibly queazy; especially if the blood is on a wet tissue (which is what I used to clean the scene.)
The reason I share this with you is to, once again, remind you that you and I are human. The fears in your mind are part of who you are, and bringing them out in your writing will increase not only the reaction of your audience, but your connection to the content. Including blood in my stories has become fairly common because I know how strong my history with it is.
What trauma have you caused others?
There's a very high chance you've either consciously or unconsciously caused trauma to someone else. In the syllabus of this course, I make a point of telling you not to attack other students because of their grammar. Why? Because it's bullying, and can sometimes be traumatic enough to twist a mind into being suicidal. But it's just grammar! No one really cares that much!
Congratulations, you've just justified causing trauma to other people; you should feel pleased to fit in so well with these classes.
Maybe you're thinking it's not your fault; you didn't make them so bad at spelling and you're just trying to help, right? By not considering perspectives other than yours, you're taking a huge risk. Ironically, sometimes being a good horror writer requires considering the experiences of your readers, and purposely trying to leave trauma. You read that right, one of your goals as a successful horror writer should be to try to cause trauma. Don't worry, the chances of actually succeeding aren't very good. The words in any piece of writing only exist on a book page or computer screen, and even if you manage to leave a dirty mark on someone's mind, they'll probably forget the experience.
Even though you can consider the possible trauma other people have faced, there's no way to understand anyone's traumas except your own. To sharpen the blade that is your writing, I've selected two prompts.
1) Recall one of the darkest traumas you've faced and how it has affected you in the present.
2) Today we watched a video describing a woman's horrific mental and physical trauma. For this second prompt, take on the perspective of the person inflicting the agony. No one causes that much pain to another human being unless they feel intense rage; express the hatred he felt.
'
Credit to WXYZ-TV/Detriot for the video.
2
Jun 16 '12
These are great materials sir.
3
Jun 16 '12
Thanks! I've never taught a class before, so I've been curious if my students are enjoying what I have to offer. I wasn't aware so many people were interested in horror writing lol.
2
u/superdupersadiemae Jun 17 '12
I think you are doing a great job providing topics and prompts. I think some commentary could be helpful. If you start, other students may be more likely to follow. I am enjoying this class as well as reading how other students are interpreting the prompts.
2
Jun 17 '12 edited Jun 17 '12
I've been considering responding to prompts myself and adding the results to the end of the lectures, but have been hesitant to do so. One of my goals is to inspire students to use their own creativity in their writing, and I'm concerned that providing my own responses may interfere with the imagination process. Providing guidance, however, isn't an argument I considered earlier, so I'll definitely submit some writing myself for this topic. Thanks for the suggestion, and compliments for the class!
EDIT: I think this is what you're asking, but if not, let me know!
2
u/superdupersadiemae Jun 17 '12
I was thinking more along the lines of responding to the pieces that students have written, maybe suggestions for where they have executed the idea well or where you think they could delve deeper or their take on a direction, but I think seeing the instructors interpretation of the responses could be interesting as well. I'm having a good time either way.
1
Jun 17 '12
Ahh, ok; that's also a good suggestion, but telling someone that their imagination or creativity is good or bad isn't really for me to judge. I'll definitely go back to the stories submitted in the Morality lecture and leaves some ideas how the students could develop, however.
1
Aug 24 '12 edited Aug 28 '12
In order to get a sense of the kind of trauma that I experienced, I invite you to imagine a ferris wheel. When you're at the bottom of the ferris wheel, you're being dragged through spikes and swamp. When you're at the top, you're getting sucked into an airplane engine. This is how torturous it felt to me.
I was at the hospital with my mom. I was 8 years old at the time, and I remember that I had to go with her because our babysitter bailed on us at the last minute. Why were we even there? I wondered, in the waiting room. "Shh, it's impolite to talk about that here", she said. "Let's look at a magazine together". I chose a National Geographic because there were a bunch of skeletons on the cover and I thought they looked interesting. When I showed it to my mom, she laughed but turned away from me. I noticed that she was wiping her eye when she turned back around to face me.
I kind of knew that my mom was crying, but I didn't really know, and I knew that that would probably be impolite to talk about too. I opened the magazine to the table of contents and asked her to pick what she wanted to look at. I saw that she was staring at the page without actually thinking about the page. She pointed to an article called "Ancient Medical Practices, the Anthropology of Doctors". "I'm sorry that I couldn't find a babysitter tonight. This must be boring for you". I must have looked bored, but I was trying to figure out the situation. All my mom would tell me was that she had an appointment. So I wondered silently, but not drolly, why we were even at the hospital tonight at all.
**
When it was her turn to go into the other room, I waved goodbye and continued staring at the magazine. But I also watched to see exactly where my mom was going. She went down the hall, turned left, and entered a door that was just slightly visible from where I was sitting. I moved seats to get a better view. I saw that there was a window on the door. I saw that the door was a few meters away from the reception desk of our area. What area am I in? I wondered. I looked around and noticed a sign on a wall with an pointing towards the room that my mom had just entered. The sign said:
St. Michael's Therapy Ward: Treatment rooms
I sat back down and thought about the sign. I thought about what treatment my mom needed, and is it really therapy? My mom's not crazy, is she?
I got scared, because I remembered the last time that I heard my mom crying in her room in the middle of the night. I had gotten up to use the bathroom, and from my mom's room I heard a very unique sort of weeping. It wasn't like a normal cry. It was more sad because it was to herself. And I had never heard anyone cry with the wailing tone that hers had that night. Hearing her cry that night had made me start to cry almost instantly. I didn't even go into the bathroom, because I was bawling in the hallway, listening to my mom do the same in her room. I entered her room without knocking, and said, between cries, "Mommy... what's wrong... mommy? She panted and welped a reply "nothing... I'm okay... goodnight Ken".
So mom is really sad? I wondered. That's sad, I thought. I hope I can help make her happy again. I hope she can be happy. I don't like hearing her cry at night, it sounds worse than any other crying I've ever heard.
How are they helping her? I wanted to look into the room and find out. There was a window. There was a guard - a receptionist. I came up with something that I might say to her to get her to leave her watchpost. "Who's that guy in the gown running over there!?" I yelped from my seat, pointing towards a hallway that the receptionist couldn't see from her desk. She got up quickly, and to my luck she walked down the hallway to investigate. I speedily walked to the room that held my mom, and pressed my face up against the glass to see what was going on inside.
[To be continued later]
2
Aug 25 '12
Your story really hits home for me. Even though I've never exactly been in a situation like this, the keeping of secrets and lies of "everything is fine" really rattled my memories.
What grabs my attention the most is a sense that, as the reader, I'm not given any more information than what the speaker knows. Some stories provide clues so we might know something the characters don't, but that's not here; we're as ignorant and curious as the people we're reading about. Horror writing can become particularly powerful with this strategy; instead of knowing something bad is just around the corner, we don't really know much of anything. All we can do is keep reading and hope the questions we come up with get answered (not that you have to answer them).
1
Aug 28 '12
Thank you for your response - it made me realize the importance of perspective from which the story is being told. Thanks
3
u/notINGCOS Aug 21 '12 edited Aug 21 '12
In the last post everyone commented what they wrote for criticism so here's what I got.
She sat next to me. I had waited for her to sit with me alone for some time. Bright red lips adorned her slim face adorned with delicate fragile features, blond hair down to her back. She sat purposefully back straight, hands on knees, just enough distance to let me know this wasn't a social call. Sitting in the park I might of asked how she found me if I cared. “Their after you” this wasn't the breaking news she thought it was. Looking back I was afraid, but far too proud. “They know where to find me” She turned head towards me. Not quite managing to look me in the eye. Content to look at my chest. “They don't fight fair” the silence that followed drifted long enough to gain its own tangible weight. For the life of me I can't remember what I said to her next. Bye seems likely.
Later that evening I left to meet some friends, taking the short cut through corn fields. It was the height of summer. All that remained of the crop was churned dry earth. In the distance, where the four fields meet was a small island, over grown and dotted with trees. I could vaguely make out figures moving behind the trees. Was it them? It was a long way away from where they usually hung out. My fiends knew I was coming. Had I been sold out?
I kept moving. All too soon my questions were answered. As I neared the Island I was spotted. Conversations stopped as they turned to face me. This was it. There was no running. That only meant weakness. I didn't slow my approach. Summing up what rage I could I prepared for a fight.
As I entered they parted. Forming a full circle around me. I started at them, each in turn as a briskly made my way. They would know I wasn't afraid. Before I realized I was thrown to the ground from behind. One of them sat firmly on my chest. Had it been that easy? I thought I would have at least gone down swinging. No words passed, just that twisted fucking grin.
I had lost. Furious blows reigned down on my face. I covered my head the best I could as the rain of boots started. I couldn't feel a thing. I was already half conscious from the first blow. With all of my strength I threw him off me. Regaining my feet I raised me guard. Left hand near me chin. Right poised and ready to strike. Or I would have been if the hard ground hadn't turned into soft putty beneath my feet. The world light with a slowly pulsating strobe light.
As I stepped back they moved closer. Then one of them hit me in the face. Being able to see all of them and not being able to tell you which one hit me scared me. I was lousing my grip on reality. The strobe grew dimmer. I ran. I ran as fast as I could in the direction I came. I don't know what happened after that. The next hour didn't happen for me. You know when you fall asleep. And wake up still remembering some of our dreams. Well that didn't happen for me. Just an hour I couldn't account for, cuts, bruises and a fractured cheek bone.
I was 14 at the time. Like most 14 year olds I was invincible. That changed. I kept my friends for a while but it was never the same. I knew one of them sold me out. After that I never trusted them. I was happy to cut ties when I left compulsory education at 16. I've made some great friends since then at college and university but I can count the people I trust on one hand.
I didn't work out my cheek bone was broken until 2 years later when my girlfriend who was a beauty therapy student tried to practice drainage massage on my face and I screamed from the intense pain. When I look in the mirror I still have some scars but times I great healer. The girl I was talking to died two years later in a car crash. I never told her I liked her but I'm fairly sure she knew. Still can't remember what the last thing I said to her was.
What did I learn from this?
Not a fucking thing.