How Do We Share Trauma

An essay by Aris Hearth from the newsletter A Perspective of Leaves

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Trauma survivors often face a complex challenge when it comes to sharing their experiences. They may desire understanding and acknowledgment from others, yet find themselves unable or unwilling to fully disclose the details of their pain.

This week, I deeply feel this delicate balance, so eloquently captured by

Aris Hearth

's declaration:

Just because I can’t share my trauma with you doesn’t mean I can’t talk about it. I have learned to navigate this space in writing - of telling without telling. My trauma may not define me, but the pain I carry has an impact on the way I live … Without this pain, I wouldn’t be the person I am.

This sentiment resonates with many who have endured traumatic experiences, brave spirits telling us I want to be heard, but I don’t want to have to perform to find connection. It highlights the nuanced way in which survivors may choose to express themselves, and in doing so, assert their right to be heard and understood on their own terms.

How Do We Share Trauma?

A reflection on my desire to write about my trauma, and ways I've coped with reading about other people's trauma.

by

Aris Hearth

from

A Perspective of Leaves

This piece makes reference to childhood abuse - reader discretion advised.

Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash

I used to struggle with how to write about trauma. I wanted so badly to be able to talk about my story. I felt left out of the Me Too movement even though I could very easily say, “Me too.” Despite my desire, I could never figure out how to share my trauma in a way that felt honorable to both myself and the reader. Sometimes, I read through my old writing and cringe at how trauma-dumpy it is. My writing professors in college probably know more than most people about the things that have happened to me. Before therapy, writing assignments are what I had.

I was reading through some of my old poems thinking there might be some I’d want to share here. I still like a lot of what I’ve written, especially pieces I wrote since graduating college. I even put together a manuscript for a chapbook about a year and a half ago. Many of the poems are about trauma or dealing with the aftermath of trauma, and at the time I felt they were ready to be public. Here is an excerpt from the introduction:

This chapbook is a result of years of therapy, writing, and personal growth. It’s a way for me to show you an important part of who I am without having to repeat myself, and so that you may take your time with it. It’s hard to explain the voracious, desperate desire to be known, when knowing me means knowing that bad things happened to me. I’ve spent years in silence, as most people do about childhood trauma, and trauma in general, out of fear of traumatizing others with my stories. . . . This is, in many ways, a coming out. I want to try to fill a gap I felt the “me too” movement left out. I felt left behind by the “me too” movement, anyway. Maybe you did too.

After putting the chapbook together and writing the draft introduction, I shared the link with a bunch of people for feedback and comments. I don’t think many of those who expressed interest actually read it, and I’m okay with that. There are pieces I now think are too heavy-hitting. I eventually removed all access to the document. I love that I have this collection because I was proud of myself when I put it together, but it doesn’t represent who I am as a writer today. There are different things I’m pulled to talk about and that’s a freeing realization.

The majority of my personal writing in my early 20s had to do with the trauma I’ve experienced. I thought that if people knew about the worst things that have happened to me, then they’d understand me in a deeper way. Now, I’m not so sure if that’s the case. I have watched a lot of true crime documentaries about people who experienced similar things as me. There is something cathartic about this - I know I’m not alone. I want my story to help others not feel alone, too. But, speaking on my trauma in isolation feels like it isolates my readers from me.

I have personally struggled with reading about other people’s trauma. I had to stop reading Hunger, Roxanne Gay’s memoir, after she describes being sexually assaulted as a child. The images of that scene destroyed me. I have a vivid imagination and experience intrusive thoughts, and these things combined to produce the most horrendous images flashing through my head non-stop. Even to this day I struggle with the memory of her story, and it’s been over a year since I read it.

The only thing that helped reduce these thoughts and distress was creating a meditative technique for myself. I closed my eyes and imagined myself on a flat plane in space. This was the plane of my consciousness and experiences. In the distance, Roxanne Gay stood on her own plane. Behind Roxanne was a door, and through the door was her story. When she wrote her memoir, she gave readers a glimpse behind her door, opening it enough for us to see her experiences in a controlled way. This is a reflection of her agency as a survivor. If she wasn’t in a place where she was ready to do this, then she wouldn’t have opened the door. Whenever the images of her experiences were relentlessly haunting me, I would put them behind her door on her plane so they no longer took up the visual space on my plane. Then, the door would shut and her adult self would be standing in front of it protectively. Sometimes I would imagine her laughing, reminding me that she is alive and has other experiences that are joyful.

A diagram of my meditation technique that I drew in my journal. I elaborate on this further in the voiceover.

Another reason I came up with this technique was because my intrusive thoughts began to feel weirdly voyeuristic. Obviously, I did not want to be constantly thinking of the worst assault I had ever read about. My trauma brain had other plans, forcing me to watch again and again. I knew that somewhere behind this response was good intentions. I want to make sure this doesn’t happen to anyone ever again. My brain wants to protect myself and others from this kind of harm. But, these thoughts are called symptoms for a reason - they are debilitating. I could barely eat, sleep, or think. Coming up with this meditation helped me gain control over my mind’s obsessive need to understand assault so that it can be prevented. That is the problem with assault of this nature - it is impossible to understand.

I do not think Roxanne Gay was trauma-dumping when she wrote her story. This assault took up a few pages of a much longer memoir, and it was important context for the larger story she was telling. I simply could not handle the weight of the trauma enough to be able to continue on. This isn’t the first time that someone else’s trauma haunted me to the point of barely functioning. Thankfully, I have gotten better at handling the wave of symptoms that can arise after I learn of someone’s sexual assault. Perhaps this is a way my body copes with my own history of sexual abuse - I am able to feel my own feelings in relationship to others. These emotions are impossibly heavy and the wound they pour from never fully closes.

Many of the people closest to me have experienced similar traumas as me. We have held each other through moments of intense grief, pain, and numbness. I have done intensive trauma work in therapy for the past four years and feel so genuinely different from the person who was writing about wanting to die before that. That person just wanted their story to be heard, and they still do. I think about it especially when I see others bravely sharing their stories. I have been watching the new documentary Quiet on Set: The Dark Side of Kid’s TV. It is cathartic to see victims of abuse be centered and believed. The culture around kids and their autonomy is changing. This gives me hope.

The reason I don’t share my trauma explicitly isn’t because the words aren’t there. The circumstances of my life have made me decide it’s best to not be very public with the details. Just because I can’t share my trauma with you doesn’t mean I can’t talk about it. I have learned to navigate this space in writing - of telling without telling. My trauma may not define me, but the pain I carry has an impact on the way I live. It is one of the driving forces behind my interests, my passions, and my world-view. Without this pain, I wouldn’t be the person I am.

I live in a body that others have taken advantage of. I believe that many people can connect with this experience. The darkest part of humanity is the part that targets vulnerable people. I wish I lived in a world where everyone feels empathy before greed. I wish I lived in a society that cares about the safety of children. I wish that I was a safe child. Despite none of this being true, I have to keep on living as the adult I once needed. If over half of the population can say, “Me too,” then the people in powerful positions are not the people who should be there.

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Aris Hearth is a 27-year-old trans person who grew up in western Pennsylvania. He has been writing since childhood and was previously published in a few online journals, all of which have ended since the pandemic started. At the beginning of 2024, he started the Substack A Perspective of Leaves, where he publishes essays and poetry on various topics such as divination, spirituality, his lived experiences, opinions, and general philosophy on life. Aris seeks to find deeper connection and understanding through his writing. His inspirations include his beloved cat Buttons, mountains, friends, family, and the ever-shifting landscape around him.

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