The Surrealism Found in Trauma

Using Insights from Guy Madden

I watched an interview with the Canadian Film Director Guy Madden in which he spoke of his "neurological" style of film producing. This is explained in more detail in other sections of this blog, but it is generally that his films at some level are a more accurate representation of how we actually perceive memory rather than the linear approach you might get in prose or other more traditional styles of film making.

I decided to try writing in a similar style. I closed my eyes, and went back to memories of me being electrocuted when I was probably about 8 years old. I was like a private eye, hiding behind posts and buildings watching for where the memory would take me rather than takign the role of actually directing the memory in a more forced manner. I was particularly aware of the emotional resonance of the trauma I experience and fascinated by the way that rather than becoming a victim of this tortuous dynamic, I instead dissociated.

Dissociation is often the way people, particularly children deal with events that exceed their capacity to handle. It is like blocking the emotion, so it doesn't overwhelm or as some put it, the person isn't "over-exposed" which can lead to a fragmentation of the self. It is inherently surreal as a person detaches from the self, inducing an altered state of consciousness as a protection from the traumatic material.

This "adaptive" mechanism is one I employed on a number of occassions when I was growing up. I had learned to somehow not speak about what seemed to me atrocities, as there was very little empathy or understanding. My parents were distracted by the need to contain their own internal conflicts. Dissociating, or not 'being there' was a great relief to me at times. I recall after an emotionally charged event, that I'd open my eyes in the bath and hold my breath as long as possible. The warm water would silence the outside world, nobody could see me, I couldn't see myself, the warmth deeply absorbed into my head.

The Tea Timer

Memories exist in spaces, a void, smelling flesh, my own. Brother plugs in the tea timer, the look of panic in my aunties eyes, she sees it the next day. She looks at my black lumpy fingers. They taunt me, fingers have been invaded. They hurt and are burnt. Sparks fly in my head. Parents keen to go out and ignore my pain. I'm thrown across the room, black lumps, electrical current, hideous movements in my inner organs, black splinters, pain, no one cares, alone, hurt, shut down.

I could have died, I might have died. Orange carpet, so much orange carpet, that's all there is. Orange carpet – stains, I can see stains, shapes, pictures that aren't there, I drift, I'm in the carpet, I'm down inside looking up at the bottom of the bed, it looks too big, too menacing, I want to grow up, to be taller, to not care, strength, my little limbs.

Shortness of breath, nowhere to scream, it garbles inside my lungs. The window. Dad's hair is so black, his eyes don't match when they look at me. I'm his son, but I'm not there, I am the carpet, the faded orange. They look over me, I am dead, I feel dead, they are getting changed. I am different. Pants, slacks, mum's looking through dresses. My fingers have black lumps, my insides are shaking, I'm dead, I'm shaking, Mum's shoes. My brother killed me, he wanted me dead.

My eyes have tears, my dad puts his belt through loops in slacks. They look handsome. I'm not alive, I'm somewhere I thought didn't exist, on the other side, I am stung, old cream Bakelite, clock, strange deco chrome, wired underneath, I can see them, I touched them, my brother plugged it in. I'm thrown back, I hit the wall, I'm alone in this. My fingers numb, my insides hot, I can't breathe. Mum smells different, I'm losing the floor. There is no carpet, I'm sinking beneath the floor where I shouldn't be. I'm different now and no –one can see. They are frustrated as they are late. I am different, I am not me. Maybe that's why they can't see me, they are ready to go to dinner. Mum puts on lipstick. Dad threads his belt. I'm crying, my tears, feel warm. They should notice. I'm changed. I'm not me. The carpet, fibres, like massive trees – what dirt and creatures live in here?

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