Why does the media portray trauma as the most interesting thing about us?Ā
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Elena from The Vampire Diaries kind of sucks.
I think we can all admit that sheās not the most interesting character, but somehow, we all love her; at least, weāre supposed to if we watch the show. Even though she is relatively boring, she endured unspeakable trauma through her parentsā passing. As a result of this trauma, she has two immortal beings head over heels in love with her.
Elena and similar characters I came to know throughout my teen years taught me that trauma is all someone requires in order to be lovable; characters are only interesting and worthy if theyāve had something terrible happen to them. The death of Elenaās parents is the very thing that deems her worthy of love. Within this problematic model, she is not supposed to be more than her trauma, nor is the audience supposed to expect any more from her.
My mom passed away when I was 14 years old. Sheād been in a coma for 10 years before that, and in some ways, I used to count this as an asset.
My freshman year of college, on the anniversary of her death, I didnāt feel too sad. What is the importance of an anniversary anyway if she is still gone every other day? But in books and movies, people are always upset on these anniversaries. They would cry in the bathroom secretly and be distant all day. Take the book, Crown of Midnight, for example. On the anniversary of her parentsā death, the main character runs away, awakening her love interest to the deep intricacies of her character. Because I thought the only way to deserve love was to exploit my trauma, I decided to play sad music to induce similar depressive episodes throughout the day.
And if I liked a boy, Iād go through all the ways in which I could slyly let them know my mother was dead —Ā as if that would make them love me. Iād pretend to be on the sidelines at parties sometimes, trying to show that I āwasnāt like other girls.” Iād been through shit in my life and therefore couldnāt be as free spirited as the othersā¦ right? I was the mysterious Katniss, just a little detached from anything that could bring me happiness. My sadness became the apex of my personality, hiding the other traits I had — something Iād seen happen with so many characters in books and films before me.
I would look at other girls who were similar to me and decide that what set me apart, what made me special was the death of my mother.
The other chick and I were both funny and smart, but my mom had died, so the boy should choose me, right? If they didnāt, I would sink further into the haze of my depression. I would think of more reasons why they should love me — add another tally to the list I would use to measure myself against others. My grandma had died this year, too. I was juggling work and school and sports and yes, I deserved love because of all of this. But the real problem was, I never looked at myself as someone worthy of love without this trauma.
I eventually became obsessed with these feelings. Every mundane issue I crossed paths with would make me fall apart. Part of meĀ wanted to breakĀ so someone could find me and put the pieces back together. I wished for bad things to happen to me. I stopped going out with my friends. I almost lost myself entirely. I no longer believed in who I was — I only believed in what had happened to me, and how others might respond to that. I became the damaged girl I wanted the world to think I was.
What surprised me the most about this time in my life was how badly I did not want to be okay. When approached with ways to change my disposition, I would almost always find a way to excuse myself. I would constantly listen to sad music and try to make the predicaments in my life fit the lyrics of the songs, instead of using music to lift me out of the hole into which I had dug myself.
I kept waiting for someone to save me because they saw my pain and loved me for it. This is what I had been taught to believe — that someoneās worth is equal to the amount of pain theyāve endured.
When I returned home after my freshman year, I was exhausted. I felt out of touch with myself, unable to recall many of the characteristics that made me who I was. However, I remember a distinct day a few weeks into being at home that I began to find myself again. I was sitting in a bookstore reading, and the unmistakable scent of books hit me. For the first time in a long time, I felt entirely peaceful within myself. I pulled out my phone and began a list of things that make me happy — things that make me who I am. These were items I could bond with people over, rather than things that made me sad, and subsequently competitive with others.
It took me a few months to understand just how bad of a state I was in at the end of my freshman year. It took seeing a post on social media about how you are an active participant in your own mental health to really make me realize what I had been doing to myself, and how unstable it was.
I started taking the necessary steps to achieve stability.
I found value in myself through reading, writing and listening to music that showed me that being myself was enough. I felt healthy for the first time in a while; I finally wanted to be okay.
I realize now how lucky I am to have been able to escape that dangerous state of mind. I have good friends and a supportive family that helped me, but if I hadnāt had that same support, Iām not sure what kind of mindset I would be in today. I may have sunk deeper and deeper into that hole, trying to prove myself worthy of love.
In the future Iād like to see less glorification of trauma in the media. Iād like to see more people who may have been through trauma, but who are not deemed worthy of love simply because of this trauma. It shouldnāt have taken Meredith Grey a dramatic near death experience in the emergency room for Dr. Shepard to realize he loved her — she was just as worthy of love before.
And me? I am worthy of love because of all the things that I am, not because of what has happened to me.
Photos byĀ Cordelia Ostler.Ā