Baby Reindeer and the painful truth about making art out of trauma

Making art about traumatic experiences presents a unique set of benefits and challenges - it's cathartic, and constraining, it's empowering but also exposing. When you're talking about something painful that's happened to you there's a desire to be constructive, juxtaposed with an impulse to articulate the true extent of the destruction.

It's even more complex when discussing a story that involves legal implications - there are often two parallel but distinct narratives - what happened, and what you can prove happened. Throw in the artistic desire to entertain and these feelings become so complex, so confusing it can make it impossible to separate art from inspiration, artist from experience.

A scene from Baby Reindeer (Image: free)

A lot of my work relates to trauma; I started writing to help process the complex emotional response I'd had after leaving an abusive relationship, so I'm no stranger to both the creation and publication of work which exposes a lot of pain and vulnerability. I'm certainly not here to offer any concrete answers, there are a great many people who would disagree with my choice to be so open about my experiences and to create and publicly release art which comments on those experiences, but I do think it's becoming increasingly important to discuss the tumultuous and complex nature of trauma-based art, and the ways in which it is received.

Talking about your own emotions and experience is one things, but how do you discuss other people, especially perpetrators, without your actions having consequences on their life? When highlighting the actions of someone who has committed abuse, stalking, or sexual assault, how are survivors to stay true to their own experiences without inadvertently exacerbating the situation, or causing harm to anyone else.

As I watched Baby Reindeer, a retelling of events by comedian Richard Gadd which opens with the words “this is a true story”, these questions were swirling around my mind: issues of safeguarding, of being able to create fiction from the bones of reality, and how to strike the all too delicate balance between the truth, and the mitigation of any potential fallout.

Unfortunately we live in a society within which anonymity is incredibly difficult to achieve and maintain, every post you make can and will be used against you in the court of infamy. Despite pleas from the creator for the public not to seek out the people upon whom the characters are allegedly based, as Gadd himself had ostensibly tried to change the details in order to obscure their identity, people immediately tried to uncover details of those involved.

What has followed is unsettling to say the least: constant headlines, extensive interviews, media sensationalisation, legal action, and a complete conflation of reality and art. This has unfortunately diverted attention and airtime from a very necessary discussion about male survivors of stalking and sexual assault.

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I can sympathise with the complexities of publishing trauma-based art and the feelings of vulnerability as the public receive something so personal which usually remains private. The week my book was launched, details of my personal experiences came to light in a documentary I'd contributed to. I didn't have any control over the timing of either event, one was contingent on the conclusion of a years-long court case, and one had been in the calendar for nearly a year, as publishing a book takes a lot of planning.

It was assumed by many that I had constructed some kind of Machiavellian plan to sell books, as if trauma writing was a plant I grew to harvest and not a piece of myself I cut off to render. Being public about trauma is exposing enough, but intrinsically tying your art, your career, to that trauma is a whole other beast entirely. I felt as though my life, my experiences were being packaged for consumption, by an audience of strangers.

How do you plug a book in the middle of a discussion about abuse? Do you just go for it, and risk coming across like you're capitalising on it? Do you coyly allude to “art as a creative outlet” and hope the audience fills in the gaps? There are always those voices urging artists to avoid discussing monetised art at all costs, to maintain “integrity” as a survivor.

Art is not my therapy, therapy is my therapy, says Lennie (Image: free)

There is no right or wrong response to trauma, some people choose to expose the names of those who hurt them, for catharsis, as a warning to others, or purely because they want to. Some people never disclose details, to protect privacy, to maintain their autonomy and agency over the flow of information. It's important to create spaces within which traumatic stories are taken seriously, and those sharing them can access support and solidarity.

I'm often asked by others wanting to write about their traumatic experiences how they can go about it, and I always answer the same way - I don't create in order to heal, I heal in order to create. Investing the time and energy into acknowledging and improving your mental health won't just allow you to create better art, but it will also allow you to better equip yourself to handle the emotional vulnerability of trauma-based creative expression.

Art is not my therapy, therapy is my therapy, art gives me an outlet to express my emotions in a healthy, controlled way, to build community and to help other people feel less alone in the vacuum of healing. There is no such thing as a perfect survivor, or a flawless resolution, wounds so deeply felt rarely leave us unscarred. Telling a story of abuse and trauma is never easy, but it is sometimes a productive and necessary part of the healing process.

Lennie Pennie is a poet and Scots language and mental-health advocate. She wrote about surviving domestic abuse in her debut collection Poyums