As I often do after hitting the magic “publish” button, I had a minor existential meltdown of shame and paranoia after posting yesterday. Especially when the content is honest and carries some depth, I tend to have blogger’s regret and then spend the evening hashing over the text, nailing down minute details like word choices and commas, to ensure that my motivation for what I wrote was clean and uncluckable.
“Uncluckable” is such a great word, by the way.
Completely irrelevant aside.
In my haste to get my stroke of insight about how like living with trauma Silent Hill is, I neglected to check for any relevant literature on the topic.
There is some non-academic conjecture and editorializing online, which is all good. But then I came across this little number (and by little I mean 153 double-spaced pages) by Evgeniya Kuznetsova of the University of Alberta that just got my brain humming. I was pleased, too, to see that it’s research that’s been published within the last year. I like my sources fresh. I’m really looking forward to tucking into this over the next few days.
–2 hours later–
Or today, since my virulent stomach cramps got me encouraged to take a sick day.
What’s funny about this is that yesterday when posting about trauma I cited both Harry Potter and Silent Hill as illustrations of key ideas.
Today, as I sit down to peruse a thesis on the topic of video games as trauma narrative, I find that my author, too has found the same connection. These are the little moments when you know that you’re headed down precisely the right rabbit hole.
It’s so exciting.
And that fact is why I will be single forever.
It’s fine, though.
A heated mattress pad, ginger Altoids, and a brand new notebook are really all the love objects I need.
— 9 hours later —
Well, shit. Thought I was doing A-ok until about 10:30 this morning. And then the true horror of five-year-olds and their faulty handwashing practices set in and I fell asleep watching a special on David Koresh and had some busted-ass true crime/rotivirus dreams, took the kids to karate, laid down in bed and sweated while I shivered, let the kids watch whatever the hell they wanted on YouTube and begged for death in my heated bed.
And now, I’m watching Girl, Interrupted.
I remember reading Girl, Interrupted when I was a freshman in high school. Not because I had to. Because I was the weird-ass 14-year-old who got off on reading weird shit above her developmental ability to understand it. It kept other people at a comfortable distance. It was great. Doesn’t seem to work anymore. Not as well. Which is a bummer.
I was also taking AP Psych and AP Literature. One of those two I’d waste six years of my life on. One of those two I should have stuck with out of the gate.
I’ll leave it to you to puzzle out which is which.
Jesus. It’s so odd how you read something and you understand it, and then your life gets 20 years more of fucked up shit racked up under it and all of a sudden you read (or watch) it again and it’s like looking at yourself 20 years ago?
The whole dynamic between Susanna and Lisa in that narrative hits just way, way too close to home. On not good levels.
Love you, bitch.
Lisa? Burn in hell.
I’m sorry. That’s mean, I know it is. But seriously. I can’t with you. I did with you, is why. For way, just way, way too damn long. And I cannot anymore.