Trauma Doesn't Make You Stronger

. THIS BLOG IS NOW PART OF THE OFFICIAL WEBSITE FOR ART PROJECT DEATH ON A PAPER. VISIT www.artprojectdeathonapaper.com TODAY!   It’s been a while since I’ve made one of these Life Update posts, and I thought what better timing to bring them back than the start of a new era. This article is simultaneously the first being published on the now-finalized homepage of the art project, and the very last post you will be able to view on the original Blogger blog. After this point, we are saying final goodbyes to the starting point, and smelling the fresh air of the new winds, as we Finns like to say from time to time.  I started writing the Trauma Doesn’t Make You Stronger blog in October 2022. I had gotten out of the hospital two months earlier at the time, and I was trying to cope with the fact that I was diagnosed with a personality disorder I had no idea I had developed due to my childhood trauma. Not only was I facing the reality of living with severe mental illness, but I ha...

 Love truly is a miracle. For all my life, I know I have felt a lot of love for the people that have been close to me and important to me, and I know that some of them have truly loved me too, still do to this day, or have once loved me but no longer do. The funny thing about love, though, is that there are many different kinds, many different flavors of love out there, but we don't talk about all of them as much as we should. Maybe that's how you get confused oblivious idiots like myself, someone who does not see that they way they feel about the gender society tells them to be attracted is love, yes, but it's a different kind of love. Someone whose entire family have all known that their child is gay, while they are none the wiser. Someone who gets jealous of a dear friend of theirs when they tell them they have a partner of some kind, even though the two have never met in person. And someone who then meets this person, invites them over from all across a whole-ass ocean,...

 When I was 17, I met this guy. He was a year older than me, a drummer in the school's band. I got good vibes from him, he had a welcoming look in his eyes and a warm smile on his lips. He was funny, tall, and kind of pretty too. I liked singing in the choir for the band when he was playing the drums, he was a virtuoso at that. After the concert the choir and the band organized for the last school semester that year, I didn't really see the guy around that much. He had his friend groups, he was getting ready for the matriculation exams that were approaching him next autumn. But I was left thinking about him for another year, pondering on one specific thing. "I'd love to get to know him better." When I was 18, I met this guy – again. It was the sophomore year dance practice, we had like five weeks until the ball. I had asked one of my friends to dance with me, and I had naturally assumed the role of the guy when dancing. But this one time, my friend couldn't ...

 It's taken a very long time for me to be comfortable with the act of sexual intimacy. I'm on the asexual spectrum, and sex has never been at the forefront of what I value the most in a relationship. It has never been a dealbreaker for me in any way, and lack of sex to me does not signify a failing relationship. But not all of that disregard is rooted in me being ace. A small part of it is due to learned – or taught to be more precise – patterns of thinking.  When I hit puberty at the age of 11 just like my mom, the girls in the locker rooms taught me to be ashamed of my body. They wrongfully violated my personal space and harassed me for something I absolutely could not control. As my body was changing at a rapid rate, I felt even more helpless at the mercy of my Friends, because this was something that was fundamentally decided FOR me – by my genetics.  And here I was, being turned into a public spectacle for discreetly grabbing a pad out of my backpack before going to ...

 When I was eleven years old, I got my very first professional sketchbook. It was marketed to be specifically for artists that were looking for that authentic manga feel to their art – it even had a silly image of some anime boy on the cover. I was so excited to start drawing like a professional, to have a legit sketchbook with legit manga lineart pens, just for drawing all those pretty anime girls. At the time, I was reading a relatively newly translated shoujo manga. I loved the story, I loved the main character, she was very pretty. I ended up drawing my versions of the covers of the manga volumes with her drinking tea and holding a whisk and a bowl in her hands in that new sketchbook I had just bought. As the story progressed and I got to know the characters even better, I found myself really liking one of the love interests. He was a sweet guy, somewhat pretty, and very relatable to me. I saw myself in him a lot as an isolated and abused kid who was afraid of literally everyon...

 When I first came out to my parents, I was 16 years old and I told them I identified as bisexual. My father didn't react in any particular way, but my mother said something immediately those words had left my lips: "I thought you were a full-gay!" The situation had been so nerve-wracking to me that I waited until my childhood best friend was visiting me, so that I could have her as my emotional support. It wasn't that I was scared of my parents' reactions; I knew they would accept me and love me all the same. It was just the moment of actually saying those words out loud and admitting to it – to myself as much as to my parents. Admit that I liked girls.  At 16, I thought that I was bi, but that turned out to be completely false. Being in a committed relationship with a man for over three years taught me a lot about myself, mainly the differences between platonic and romantic love, and what sexual attraction even means. Because that, I knew, was something I did no...

 I think I was around twelve years old when I started to fear the shower. I remember taking showers when there was nobody home but me and our cat, just how scared I was of my surroundings. It didn't make any sense to me back then; I was home, and home was a safe place for me. But it's like that didn't matter at all, the environment was irrelevant. It was the shower itself that bothered me. This was a time in my childhood when I started experiencing a variety of irrational fears of the unknown, supernatural things and stuff like that. For years, I attributed that fear to one particular virtually interactive manhwa short story I came across on the internet. There's no doubt that that terrifying story of body horror and unnatural sounds of the human body being crushed did scare the living shit out of me. But it wasn't the end-all-be-all that I had always thought that it was. Because I had an epiphany. showers 2. They were always staring at me. Always analyzing every ...

 I never understood why it mattered to them so much. If they truly hated being there just as much as I did, why did they spend all that energy on worrying about things that didn't involve them in any way? If they wanted to get out of there as much as I did, why did they choose to linger around and steal glances any more than was absolutely necessary or appropriate?  Granted, I have come to realize that the way these kinds of people think and operate is completely outside of the realm of my understanding or comprehension. It's like their wave length is so far beyond my reach that it is futile for me to even try to reach that frequency. But that doesn't stop me from trying, because the reasons for their actions always seem to be so obvious to everyone else – everyone who wasn't even involved in the situation. So why am I struggling so much to understand even a smidgen of it? But my inability to understand is not a new thing. These things baffled me back then, and even to...

  Why else would they say those kinds of things? It's all just envy, don't worry about it! You're way ahead of them, that's why they comment on your body like that. Just don't pay them any mind, they don't deserve your attention anyway. People always try to find a justification for sexual harassment. They find ways to play it off as something that doesn't really matter as much as you feel it violating your entire being. That it's just them joking around, they don't actually feel that way about you. Especially if they're of the same gender as you are, because that would be gay! And gay people don't exist here! Now, thinking back on those moments, I can say with certainty that at least one of my Friends was a closeted queer girl. She was being so obnoxious about it, it kept going on for years. I mean come on, there is no reason for another girl to be staring at your boobs enough to be able to determine their cup size – unless the gayness is in...

 When I go back to those years, those days, those moments, a paralyzing sensation of dread sets over me. It makes me feel violated all over again, and in a lot of ways, I think I am just now truly experiencing the horrible emotions those events caused within me, because I just wasn't aware of any of it. I just didn't know what it even was that I was facing, and why years and years after, I felt uncomfortable and scared around other girls.  As a Kid, social cues were never my strongest asset. I remember my mom telling me that the only reason why I wasn't allowed to go to elementary a year earlier was my complete lack of social skills. I had the intellect, curiosity, and motivation to learn, and those factors would have granted me a position of advantage – if only my intellect had extended over to understanding social norms and how to interact with other kids. But it didn't, and there is a reason for it. A reason I would have to pay a price too huge for me to ever afford ...

 Gym dressing rooms. They were probably the single place in the entire school building that I was the most scared of. I remember entering the hallway on the basement floor that led to the dressing rooms, and the soul-crushing dread and fear that settled deep into my being. It wasn't just in my gut, it was everywhere; in my head, in my heart, arms, legs. Every inch of my body was screaming at me to not go there, but I knew I had no other choice.  Because no matter what I did – went to PE class or skipped it – I would be punished for it. The punishment was always a bit different, but one thing I did know: I would much rather take the gym dressing rooms than the wrath of that monster of a PE teacher I had back in elementary. But it was all the same; it was agonizing whatever I did. And every time I had to go to those rooms deep in the basement, I knew what I had for coming. It is definitely fascinating how little a child's brain is able to comprehend of the traumatic things the ...

 Dissociation has taken a lot of things away from me. I have massive gaps in my memory, both long-term and short-term, seemingly for no reason. But it has also shielded me from a lot of things; things that were too hard for my child brain to comprehend. It's fascinating how you can go for years without knowing a single thing about it, and then one day, the memory is right there, crystal clear in your mind, as if it was planted there. You question it – how is this even possible? – and think you must have just made it up and it was probably nothing. But the memory persists, it will not leave you alone, and every time it comes back to you, there is a pit in your stomach, and you feel it in your bones. It has to be real. For the longest time, I didn't even know what it was. For years, I didn't understand why I felt so uncomfortable in the showering areas and the saunas of public swimming pool halls. I couldn't wrap my head around how it was possible that I was scared of so...

 The days go by, one after the other, and you can't recognize the passage of time anymore. Until one morning, after breakfast, your nurse steps into your room.  "The doctor wants to see you today after lunch. He's assessing your current status and whether you can be discharged soon." You have already gotten used to the routines: waking up at 7.30, eating breakfast at 7.45, the smokes in between meals, leaving out for one walk per day, and going to bed before the sun sets. And then, it all suddenly changes.  I've always felt a sense of melancholy on the last day at the ward. It's a strange feeling, because yes, I do want to go home, and I am happy I am finally given the chance to leave. But in some ways, I latch onto the environment, the people, both nurses and other patients. I merge in with them, we become one inside my head. It's a community I feel I belong in, and everyone knows how little I have experiences of belonging anywhere. So I guess I want to h...

Fear. Fear is the first thing I remember feeling when going to the ward. It's a persisting kind, it always greets me with open arms when I check in, no matter how many times I've been there in the past, no matter how trustworthy the nurses and doctors are. I think a lot of it has to do with just how unnatural of an environment the hospital is: time has stopped, seasonal changes don't exist, days blend into each other, Yule, Easter, Juhannus are all the same.  And they bring you to your room, have you empty out your bags, take your cigarette lighter away from you, as well as keys, ID cards, wallets, any sharp objects. If you arrive as a voluntary patient, they grant you more freedom, and you get to keep your phone, electronics, and chargers. But if you start resisting the treatment, breaking the rules, behaving in suicidal ways, they'll take that freedom away from you. As long as you behave, it'll all be a lot easier for you.  The rooms are so well soundproof that I ...

 Being admitted to a psychiatric facility once is enough of a troubling and traumatic experience. Especially if your stay gets prolonged, ranging from several months to over a year, the ward will most likely become a place you never want to find yourself in ever again. And for those who get the proper help they need on their first and longer ward period, there might not ever be a reason to go back – and that is always the end goal.  But for those of us who might not stay at the ward for months but only weeks, it's more common to end up in the same situation again. The kind of mental illnesses that you have obviously contribute to this as well, and for someone with a mood disorder like depression or bipolar it's more likely they won't spend extended periods of time at the facility but instead are more likely to come back at another time.  And I am definitely one of those people. My main diagnosis is BPD, borderline personality disorder, but I am also diagnosed with MDD, ma...

 " Wait, really?! Were you guys really allowed to do THAT? I wish I had had those same privileges too, man that place almost killed me with boredom." Psychiatric facilities are generally known for their strict regulations. Patients are only allowed to do certain things, access certain personal belongings, and everything is closely monitored via security cameras. When you go there for the first time, you might be shocked at how much your life is being controlled by other people. But if you are one of those who end up going for more than once, you get used to it. Especially when in hindsight, you understand the need for those restrictions.  It is all for your own safety, after all.  Psych wards in Finland are not nearly as controlling as in countries like the United States. There are certain universal rules every patient must follow, like meal schedules and having your personal belongings checked every time you come back from a walk. But the majority of the rules are based ...

 Sometimes, they let you have visitors. If you're relatively stable, not a threat to others and can handle social situations, you are allowed to invite people to come see you at the ward. Typically, it's family members that visit the patients, but close friends are also common. For me, having people visit me is the most important part of recovering and getting closer to the eventual check-out date along with the actual treatment. In general, it feels good to leave the sterile white rooms for a little while and talk with people who are living their regular lives. It makes you feel like a normal person again, kind of restoring that connection to the outside world you've lost since being admitted.  "Ah, so the world is still the same, after all. When I get out, I'll return to the normalcy of everyday life once more." It's a very comforting thought. And a very important one to hold onto too, because institutionalization is something we are all afraid of there....

 I have never been a morning person. I don't like waking up early for no apparent reason: to me, there needs to be at least a somewhat relevant motivation for me to get out of bed before the clock strikes 9 am. For the longest time, I had that motivator in the form of school schedules and uni lectures. But as years have gone by, as I have gotten even sicker and sicker, those reasons quietly exited my life and left me without much of a trace. This, in turn, made it possible for me to stay up ridiculously late and wake up to eat my "breakfast" at 2 pm. That used to be my very normal lifestyle, with a sleeping pattern so horrifying that people around me almost started to worry for me, no matter how much I tried to justify it with "my creative juices flowing the best at the wee hours". To everyone else, it looked like a very unhealthy way of life, while I was none the wiser. And as much as I love working when everyone else is fast asleep, I do have to admit one thin...