Using Art to Navigate Trauma

Thoughts on using art to navigate trauma…

Art is exploration. It’s a conversation with things that won’t speak. This is my experience at least. When we’re fascinated, we’re drawn toward the same thoughts, feelings and cycles. We dive deeper into that realm in hopes of finding a new way to approach or understand a subject. When we cease the active pursuit however, and rely on patterns and instincts, things grow stagnant and repetitive. And if any of this sounds familiar you may think I’m referring to trauma which in a way behaves similarly.

Trauma as I’ve grown to understand it acts as a roadblock. A detour sign that directs you back through the neighborhood toward another detour sign that loops back toward that original detour sign. We can find ourselves circling that neighborhood for years, decades even. The landscaping changes, maybe the homes shift hands to new owners, perhaps the HOA even puts in a little park, and we’re convinced things are different this loop around. however its still the same neighborhood; same loop. It can take a radical decision to free ourselves from that loop.  A separation from the familiar car and a fresh look at who is actually enforcing that detour sign. Perhaps it was set up during your childhood. A younger you dragged it out to ensure they would never be left alone in that neighborhood when it was time to pack the car and drive. There are no workers behind that sign keeping you from carrying forward though. You’re the worker and its your job to don the hardhat and start the job so we can finally remove that sign.

Approaching the sign; facing your trauma is no easy task however. It might be one of the trickiest tasks of humans. Its not actively happening, so you can’t solve the problem as it presently stands. The pavement needed work years ago and now there are weeds and several other tasks that need addressed. You can always recruit help but ultimately you’re the one with the chore list and its truly intangible to anyone else, which makes your task of relaying needs an important one. There are several tools for repairing the broken pavement, the potholes and weeds and while I’m not a mental health professional I will address one tool that has helped me immensely; art.

There’s no need to outline the inspiration behind my work in depth but a quick overlay looks like this: I started exploring caves in college, I fell in love, that passion made its way into my art via crystals and minerals, I found my calling, I’m here now, I’m glad I’m here now. But why did I explore caves in the first place? The roots are of course, trauma.

My city zoo had a faux jungle exhibit. After walking past the caged bats, snapping turtles and insects you had to walk through a dark and synthetic limestone hallway. One of the walls opened up to reveal a small stretch of plaster cave about 20 feet in length or so. It was small, dark and guided you toward an entirely separate room, almost like a short cut. I would dodge out of sight and loop this cave back and forth dozens of times often at the frustration of my parents, and those parents are precisely why I looped this fake cave so frequently. It was small enough they couldn’t reach me, dark enough they couldn’t see me, and that shortcut to a separate room meant I had a moment to be alone and enjoy something in safety. This fake cave was a literal safe space from the pain, violence and isolation I grew accustomed to at home. I had never spent a single solitary second in a real cave until I was 19, but before that moment, that stretch of synthetic limestone replayed in my mind frequently. That memory was why I  ever entertained stepping foot into a massive skylit cave in Ash Grove, Missouri.

            With every crystal I grew, every mineral I touched and every cave I explored I had a deeper understanding of the trauma I survived and most importantly the unmet needs of a much younger me. One that was still looping through that fake cave back at the Tulsa City Zoo. I remember telling myself during one caving trip “I wish kid Tyler could see this right now”. I realized that kid Tyler was the only reason present Tyler was there in the first place. I knew how he would feel seeing the crystals I grew, the insects I collected and the safe and vibrant life I now lead, so I made an intention to bring him with me, and I did this by incorporating his fascinations into my current art.

            Kids are great at distraction. Despite their home environment they’re apt at being present and finding escapes. Its until responsibilities start to crop up and you find yourself battling between engaging with the outside world and the safe narratives and spaces we learned to build in our minds. Mine included the rocks I collected at the city park, the fake cave at the zoo, the plants that grew in my father’s nursery, and the countless dinosaur toys of my siblings. These things were obsidian towers in my world. They were safe havens and no matter what happened I clung to them with all of my might. So I thought, “what if I use these safe havens as a lure to safely guide kid Tyler from behind that detour sign and out of the car” (He shouldn’t be in the driver’s seat anyway.) What if I could give kid Tyler a world he could only dream of, full of crystals, cool rocks, caves, strange and wondrous plants and illustrations of dinosaurs? All of this without any of the pain and abuse? It sounds impossible to imagine such a safe and wonderful world, but that would be kid Tyler talking. Present Tyler however could provide all of this and I could use my art and curiosity to do it. I could use my art to communicate with kid Tyler hiding anxiously behind the steering wheel and ask him to step out and enjoy some of this cool shit I brought back for him. And I think perhaps you could do the same if you needed.

            We can use the safe and neutral territory of our art and curiosity to incorporate the beauty that coexisted with the pain. The things that had kept you distracted during your dark moments worked because you found them wondrous and beautiful. That’s how powerful it was. They kept you tethered to the world outside of the events or people that harmed you. What if you pulled that beauty from the past, tied a knot around your art with the strength of an adult and used it as a guide for a younger you? A lifeline perhaps. I tend to believe that as adults we circle back to the things we loved as children, whether you come from trauma or not. Kids are incredibly present and they enjoy things to their fullest. That passion survives our teenage years, the misguided directions and suggestions of counselors and teachers often underpaid and overserved. Its powerful stuff and I believe we can use the things we loved as children to fill the pot holes, repair the cracks and remove the weeds. When we incorporate the safe spaces in our work it paints a fuller picture and adds a layer of gratitude for the things that kept you here and guided you into adulthood. Perhaps dressing up was a safe space for you, your grandparent’s garden, or humming while you played? Whatever that resource is, I urge you to give it another chance. Design some costumes, draw some plants, beatbox while you paint! You don’t have to be “good” at it. That’s not the point and kid you didn’t care anyways. Knitting in the safety of our environments can make the trauma less daunting and shed some real light on the strength you embodied through those moments. That tool doesn’t go away no matter what narrative trauma has weaved for you. There’s a fuller picture and wider road behind that detour sign. I promise you.