Edited By: Prisha Visveswaran
Once again, I find myself ensnared in the suffocating embrace of a society that romanticises pain and trivialises suffering. In this era of digital exhibitionism, where every facet of our existence is laid bare for public consumption, it seems that even the most intimate struggles are unable to escape from the twisted allure of trendiness. The latest fad to sweep across the expanse of social media is the insidious propagation of what can only be described as the ‘trauma aesthetic.’ It is a disturbing phenomenon wherein the torment of mental illness is packaged and sold as a desirable lifestyle choice, a badge of honour to be flaunted and admired.
As someone who has grappled with the demons of depression, I cannot help but recoil in horror at the thought of such callous trivialisation. For me, mental illness was never a fashion statement, nor a means to garner attention and validation. It was a relentless, soul-crushing affliction that consumed every fibre of my being. In my novel, ‘The Bell Jar,’ I sought to peel back the layers of societal expectation and expose the raw, unfiltered truth of my own descent into madness. I emphasised the gnawing fear that one’s very existence is a burden on society. It was truly a bell jar descending upon my consciousness, suffocating me in its opaque shroud of despair. And yet, despite my efforts to shine light on the darkness, my message seems to have been woefully misconstrued.
For what is the ‘trauma aesthetic’ if not a grotesque distortion of everything I sought to convey? It is a slap in the face for those who have fought tooth and nail against the never-ending tide of despair, only to be met with indifference, scorn, or even commodification. And it is a dangerous precedent, one that threatens to further stigmatise mental illness and discourage those in need from seeking the help they so desperately require.
I’ve said it before but I feel the acute need to reiterate it. I saw my life spreading out in front of me like a fig tree. A purple fig from each branch winked and beckoned me with a wonderful future. One was a husband and a happy home with children, another was a renowned poet, a brilliant professor, or even a famous editor. I couldn’t figure out all of them. But I imagined myself starving to death, perched at the foot of the tree because I couldn’t choose which fig to pick. The figs started to wrinkle and turn black as I sat there, unmoved and paralysed with indecision. One by one, they fell to the ground at my feet. I wanted every single one of them, but picking one would mean losing the others so I chose to just watch them rot.
I speak from experience when I say that there is nothing glamorous about mental illness. There are no silver linings to be found, no hidden depths to be plumbed in the murky waters of the mind. There is only the unrelenting agony of existence, the ache of a soul stretched to its breaking point. My own struggles with mental illness were profound and debilitating. I was consumed by the darkness. In those very moments of hopelessness, my mind became a battleground between the desire for sweet release and the desperate clinging to life. Locking myself in the confines of my kitchen, so as to avoid my screams reaching the ears of my beloved children sitting in the next room, my mind was overcome with white-hot agony as tears streamed down my face, capable of filling a thousand oceans. I stood before the open oven, the gas hissing ominously as I contemplated the finality of my actions. I felt the cold, gentle gleam of the grey metal of the microwave as I slowly placed my head inside it, suffocating it, and neatly tucking myself to a sleep that would outlive time.
And so, I implore you to reject the siren song of the ‘trauma aesthetic’, to resist the temptation to romanticise pain and instead, embrace the messy, yet beautiful complexities of the human psyche. For only then can we hope to find peace beneath the shadow of the fig tree.