‘I became dependent on my pain for income’ Writer and activist Louise Bruton on escaping the trauma trap – Independent.ie

About two years ago, I made a promise to myself that for reasons of self-preservation, I would no longer put my feelings online. During the pits of the self-reflection that 2020 brought, I altered that promise. As a writer who inserts my life into my work, I earned the title of disability-rights activist, but the lines between life and work became blurred. After many months of work with a good therapist, I realised that I had to establish a boundary and stop writing about myself. To explain why, I need to break that rule.

Uploading a photo to Instagram in late July, I pondered a caption. The photo was of 10 prosthetic legs that have served me for the last 17 years. Its monumental because my 10th leg marks the age that I will be an amputee for as many years as I wasnt. Seventeen years with a right foot, 17 without.

I considered a spiel that detailed a great sadness that was overcome in my journey to acceptance. Instead, I wrote: 10 legs that cover 17 years. They live in a bag at the back of my wardrobe. Had I gone any heavier, I would have given in to the social-media nuance of rehashing trauma as a commodity.

Online culture is flooded with trauma thats posted under the guise of protest and shared with our direct communities. Social media has turned activism into an accessible thing, which is particularly beneficial for disabled people, and it means that marginalised voices can be amplified without ever needing a byline in a national newspaper, which is a remarkable thing.

We can learn about whats going on in Palestine or about Black Lives Matter marches happening in America from our living rooms, and we can then spread thatinformation so that more people can protest, raise awareness or donate money. The hierarchy of power is removed but it can also throw people into the deep end if their online audience grows or, more worryingly, they become dependent on external validation.

I wrote about myself constantly because I want people to understand the needs of wheelchair users and amputees. I want access and equal rights for disabled people to become a priority for others. But after years of attempting that, I discovered that I had to speak in superlatives. I had to share the surgical and societal scars if I wanted anyone to take notice, and I had to scream to be heard.

I see this trait in other writers and anyone with an Instagram account, especially people who are of colour, disabled, working class, LGBTQ+, or plus size. God help your vocal nodules if you tick the box for all of the above.

I have discussed my personal life in 10-minute segments on almost every radio chat show in Ireland and I have featured on panels that want to cover every inch of diversity in a 30-minute slot. I placed myself at the frontlines of my Twitter and Instagram accounts, ready for war at all times. I wrote and spoke as if I had the answers but, looking back, I know that I was trying to find a way to like myself, using other peoples ignorance as fuel when I was near running on empty.

Id be lying if I said I didnt become addicted to the attention I got when a piece became successful or a tweet went viral, but they were merely a distraction from the bigger issues at work.

As a disabled woman with a modified body, I have always looked to the body-positive movement a movement that was initially amplified by fat Black women and later gentrified by white beauty standards for inspiration, but its one that I abused. Looking back on old articles I wrote for womens online magazines, an industry where commodified trauma runs rife, I preceded any message of self-love by outlining the hatred that I believe society held for me. I used grotesque language to describe my body while casually using the terminology of trauma to bolster my point.

I know now that I was living in a fog of confusion, because how can I love my body freely if I have to constantly remind myself of the hatred real or imaginary that other people have for it?

While capitalism is usually at the root of many self-love proclamations, it transforms our self-worth into artillery when its something that should exist regardless of how others feel about us. Grand statements of love are fine for eye-catching Instagram captions, but you still have to like the person you are when youre eating breakfast, washing your hair or sitting in traffic. To dolly-up RuPauls Drag Race catchphrase: If you dont like yourself, how in the hell you gonna love yourself?

I became dependent on my pain for income. If your life becomes tangible content, your sadness and anger morph into part of your identity, giving you little room to grow or move on. It might feel cathartic to write a 600-word piece on everything from body hang-ups to love troubles or grief, but we can only process whats going on with the guidance of a trained professional. But ongoing therapy isnt always affordable for a freelance writer or activist, so the act of writing it out is the only outlet we have.

There should be more of a duty of care from media owners to contributors providing personal content especially with the risk of trolling but time and resources are not a luxury that many people working in media have. The final full stop on a written piece does not mean peace of mind has been achieved.

Ireland has seen the trend of sharing trauma within the annex of activism escalate in recent years. Over a year after the murder of George Floyd and the whole world marched to say that Black Lives Matter, a huge number of Black Irish activists continue to share their experiences of racism, at the risk of receiving more, so that its foundations could be deconstructed.

Personal stories were a huge factor in winning the Yes vote for 2015s Marriage Equality referendum and 2018s overdue referendum to repeal the Eighth Amendment. So many campaigners turned the limelight on their own lives so that voters could put faces to the statistics and enter the polling stations with greater empathy. While the wins are celebrated accordingly, the losses are personal, and a deep exhaustion permeates as activists move through the world with clenched jaws and hunched-up shoulders.

We can learn so much from the experiences of others and it is vital that people learn how to express themselves. However, when we share trauma without a learning curve, a trigger warning may be issued to the reader; but what about the writer? Theres an adrenaline thrill that comes when you spill your guts online to strangers, but the reality is that the author is possibly alone with no one there to mind them. Thats the other side of online activism: for all of the fight that goes with it, the aftercare can be forgotten.

When you use your body as a weapon in print, protest or on Instagram, mental and physical fatigue is bound to take hold. When every day feels like a battle, you can forget to simply exist. To live without considering the hatred of others is a breathtaking and extremely privileged form of liberty, but the way in which we talk about our bodies matters. Even if the end goal is equality or empowerment, its important to draw a line between whats yours and whats yours to give away. In the age of documenting everything, thats an incredibly difficult thing to do.

When I uploaded the photo of my 10 legs, I chose a caption without any armour because Ive fought those battles long and hard enough. Instead, I presented a snapshot of everyday acceptance because there was no need for me to give anything else away.

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'I became dependent on my pain for income' Writer and activist Louise Bruton on escaping the trauma trap - Independent.ie