HANAHAKI DISEASE ➯ JASON THE TOYMAKER
𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐢. 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬.
"—𝕊𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦. 𝕊𝕙𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕜𝕚𝕝𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕪𝕠𝕦, s̸̢̘̭̭͎̜̣̖͎̩̑̎͛̇̎h̸͍̜̟͎̎͌̓̃́̄̍͌̋̽e̸͍̬̟̗̔ ̴̡͕̻̟̓͌̑̈́́̇̀͝͠ị̷̡͉͕̭̦̗̗͋̀ͅs̵͇̝̹̙̜͈͛̽̂̎̄͒̓̀ ̴̢̜̝̣̥͇̪͗ķ̷̡̹͈͚̩͋̾̄̋͜͝͝͠i̴̘͗̔͘͝l̴̺̬̩͕̭͈̊͒͆̐̍̉̑l̵̨̺̦͕͕̖̱̹͇͓̓̄̉͛̉̀̚͠į̸͚͎͈̝̤̻͍͋͒͆͊͌̍͘̚n̶̨̧̛̰̝̖̤̗̞͚͋̍͒̓̔͑̉̿͘g̸̦̥̟̺̳̩̠̓͂͝͝ ̸͕̰̥̹̯̼̻̠͔̒ẏ̴̡͙̤̼̳͚͔̯̍̔ò̵̻̲̱̜̭͈̼̝̀̅͗̾͝ͅͅų̸̤͖̥̤̘̫̩̥̙̄͑̂̃̈́͌̍̍͝
̶͙̲̼̳̔͗͑̓̃̀̇͂͝͠S̴̯͑̂̍̆̽ḥ̸̢͖͒͑́͌́e̸̛͕̯̯͐͒̌͐͐̈́̈̕ ̴͇̩̣̞̺̲̯̻̟̩͛̽̏͛̉̅͝i̶͊̇͜͠s̵͉͕̩͓̘͕͈͉̖̖̃̈͌̓̇̍̚ ̸̡͓̟͔̝͉͚̗̦̂̊͝k̵̡̪͕̤̭̟͌͒̍̎̉́̚͝i̶̡̗̥͘ḽ̴̛̯̩̱͚̄͛̍͑̐̏̐̈́̕l̸̝͎̬̲͍̆̋͋͘ͅi̴̧͇̜̗͕̖̥̳̬̫̔̓̐̏͒͒̌̐͘̕ņ̵͚̼̻̳̩̳͌̈̇̎̌g̵̻͙͗̀̒̂̅̇͆̓ ̷̖͔̝̭̀̃y̷̧̢͔͙͙̖̪͗̋õ̵̡̖̗͕͙̯̥̺͎̃̑̍̐̆̿͘͘ṷ̴̜̰͒͒́̏͋̇͆͐̋͝
̴̨̡̛̟͙̘͚̠̝̃̈́̈̈̈̆̔̽͠S̶̢̥̹̫̳̼͔̈́͒̓̆͛̆̚ḧ̴͚̦͇̻̪̤̗̭͕̈́̉̿́e̸̹̩̳͉͍͎̅̈̄̍͑̐̂͝ ̴̖̱̻͔͂͊i̴̧̥̞͔͚̯̳̯̔͝͠s̴͚͙͔̠̬̤̳̎̀͒͂̓̒̈͒͠ ̷̢͍͚̠̼̺̦͇͗̈́ͅķ̷̟̙̬͚̤̣̮͔̫̔͒͝i̸̡͕̫̬̬̖͖̝̊̊̄̈͛̓̀͝ͅl̷̻̙͕̼̬͌͛ͅl̴̨̎̑į̸̧̫̙̻̲̘͎̍̎̓̋̀͜n̴̨̛̳̹̻̩̮̍͆g̸̖͌̋̃́̔̈̚͝ ̷̰̼͕̜̐̚̕y̶̼̳̰̰̽ö̷̡̢͎̞̩̮̪̺̝́̈́͆̑͒̽̋̏͘̚ͅứ̸̜̱̳͖̽̎͂̉̈́̽́͜͜
̸͚̯̍Ŝ̴͎͈̞̯̅̿̎̚h̶̢͍̞͕̮̐̇̽͋̆̿ę̶̠̞̩̘̯̍̀̾͗̐̉͌͝ ̶̙̻̦͕͔̘̓̄̌̓͂͝ȉ̶̩̬͖̗͚̬̼̇̎̅͂̓̆́̚s̸̢̱̮̹͖̓́̓͒ ̶̮̓̾̌̓k̷̡̲̣̭̤̣̲̣̫̳͊̋͊͐̀̕͠ȉ̴̛̖̗̉͗̎͝l̷̼̦͚͖̀͊̈́l̷̘̭̃̊̎̀ḯ̷͖̞̯̃͘n̴̻̝͙͕̎̋̉̆́̆̐̚͜g̷̙̬̯͈͍͈͕̣̯̩̈́̑ ̵̬̳͐̈́̾́ͅy̸̡̯̗̥͓̯̺̹͆͜ơ̴̢̖̭̩̩̈̑̈́̊̕u̴̢̺̣̥͖̞͕͑̏́̓̾̈́͘
̶̨̧̯̣̱͕̲̺̱̓̀͜S̸̮̠̜̹̹͆͌̊́͊̋̽͝h̸͕̠̦͔̬̗̐̈́̊͗̋͑̓͠͝ę̶̠͔͚̳̣͇͂͌̌̆͌͛͊͗̉͘ ̵͙̐̊̑͛͋̀ǐ̷̯̭̙̗̲͋̈́̐̈́̍̀͘s̸̫̩̳̰͎̈́̎͂ ̵̨̹͖͗͐̏̉̃̀͘͠k̵̤̮͋͆̈́́́̽̆̅͊̚í̷̢̢͙̹͓̞̦̥̺͕̄̾̀̓͝͝ļ̷̨̧̛̣̥͕͍́̄͂͊͊̐̚l̸͖̙͠ị̸̖̺̹̀̊n̵̢̻̘͚̩̮͍̬̝̘͆͂͒͛̓͐́͒͝g̸̜͉̤̜̖̝̚ ̸̧̥̻͎̰̞̈́̈́ÿ̷̛̼͎̫͇͈͙̥͎̬̗́̈́̊o̵̗̤̬͓̭͓̦̒̈́̐̇̽̍̑̈́̎ù̵̠͎́̅
̸̼̯̮̪͍̥̀̈̇̇Ṡ̸̛̥̯̔͐̔͛͗͛͌͝h̷̞̩̘̯̦̪̬̱̬̺͂̉̊̏̕̕e̶͕̗̙̍̔́ ̵̡͉̳̑̄̑̽̓̇̈́̌̄̃i̵͓̘̟̩͐s̶̛͓͙͖̣̭͍̝͑̅͌̓̀͊͊̑͜͠ ̷̫̫͖͐ḱ̷̡̝̠̪̖̮̖̙̻̖̋̆̅̈́͂̏̆̇͠i̷̥͂͆̓͝͝ḻ̴̳͆̎͋͌͘͘̚͝͠ľ̷̛̙̺̣̣̼̗͓͖̍i̴̦̙̪͒ň̴̡̤͚̼̭͓̀͘͝ģ̷̰͎̜́͗̂ ̸̧̧͕̠̉͒͆́̈́̅ẙ̴̦̓͊͊̂̑͠ö̴̧́ù̸̢̧͉̞͖͉̮́"
The toymaker's hands trembled nervously as he extended the gift out to the H/C haired girl.
In his hold, an item he'd put so much time, energy, blood and sweat into making. He could only pray now that she liked it.
"Jason, it's beautiful." You cooed, taking the hollow, polished carcass of a baby out of his hands and cradling it gently in your own.
The eyes had been replaced with buttons, and the mouth of the whiney little creature had been sewn shut with black thread. It's body, bare of any reproductive organs and was clad in a vintage outfit, fit for a doll. Curly vintage hair, the same colour as your own, had been threaded tightly into it's scalp.
The blonde man's heart began to race, as he bashfully fiddled with his hands behind his back, swaying gently from side to side as his muse practically gushed over his gift.
He'd wanted this one to be just like her, if not as close as it could be to her.
"Only the best for you my precious little toy."
Creating morbid little gifts for you was something he'd been doing for a few passing months.
He had been trying desperately to find the courage to let you know that he'd wanted you around in other ways.
You were his chosen, and he'd made sure that you'd known that and promised him you'd stay by his side no matter what. However, he didn't want to just be your friend, or pal, he'd wanted to be the person you'd go to in times of need, the person you'd long for, crave, kiss, fuck, cry for, but how could he tell you that?
His little gifts were his subtle way of flirting, but you'd always seemed to be oblivious to his suggestive acts and terrible compliments that you'd never seem to understand such as: 'You are stunning for a toy filled to the brim with pulsing organs.'
Though it wasn't much, the praise he'd received along with that sickeningly sweet smile he'd cherished was enough to make him feel like his efforts had not gone to waste and that in time you would be his.
Upon your departure, he'd sat down at his desk and immediately started getting down the ideas for his next design for you onto paper.
His own collection of dolls surrounded him proudly, all aligned neatly onto shelves with few failed creations left scattered about on the counters or make tables below, sat on top of sheets of trialled designs.
His idea for this creation, mechanical roses — a design he'd planned on making very carefully, with the bones from fingers of children.
For the petals, he'd decided on peeling the skin from someone's ears to polish later on in order to give the flowers a more frilly effect.
A psychotic smile graced his lips as he allowed his quill and ink to dance across the page, notating his insanity.
It was done.
The painted black bouquet of steampunk roses, forged from bones, skin, cogs and gears were wrapped neatly with a ribbon she'd gifted him many years ago and stood eagerly in the grips of his palm.
The delicate result was time consuming, and took many attempts to perfect however, after the three hard, long, months in which he'd spent night and day locked away in his craft room, leaving only occasionally to check up on you and eat, he had finally done it.
He couldn't wait any longer, beating around the bush whilst putting this much effort into his gifts was beginning to feel foolish and so he'd decided that today would be the day that he would confess his feelings to you and make you his.
Humming to himself, he searched the grounds of the area near the mansion in the woods for you. Knowing you'd enjoyed your own company and could often be found slumped against a nearby tree fast asleep, he didn't expect finding you to be that hard.
The sweet scent of your perfume tickled his nostrils, and he followed it eagerly, almost skipping as he grew closer and closer and closer towards you.
And then time stopped.
His grip on the bouquet tightened, as he watched you stare up lovingly at the navy blue masked man, arms wrapped around his neck loosely as you both swayed side to side. His hands rested firmly on your waist.
The toymaker's heart shattered and his mind went into overdrive. He tried to convince himself with some excuse about why you were so comfortable with the man-eating killer. A platonic friendship maybe?... You might have gotten hurt, saw each other as family even... it just couldn't be...
So when you'd lifted his mask, getting up onto your tippy toes to place a soft kiss onto his ash grey lips he'd lost it. Throwing the bouquet onto the ground he stormed off back to his room, hands lacing through his blonde locks of hair as he growled to himself bearing his teeth as he tried to control the emotions consuming him.
As the door slammed shut his attempts crumbled.
A scream erupted from his lips as his blonde strands deepened to an orange red colour and his love for all the toys around him dissipated into nothing.
His hands attacked the small figures, sliding them off of the shelves onto the floor, tossing them, throwing them, ripping their heads off with his own two hands as the tears started streaming down his reddened cheeks.
How could you do that to him?
After all this time he'd spent head over heels in love with you he'd felt so stupid for thinking that you'd ever love him back. He'd felt foolish for waiting as long as he did to tell you about how he'd really felt and now all he could see was red along with the constant image of you with that eyeless bastard, smiling, laughing, kissing him for fucks sake. All of that he'd wanted for himself and he couldn't have it.
He'd hated himself.
He'd hated you.
Ȟ̷͕̟̭̙̠͓̤̳̮͌E̵̢̮̹̜͖̝̍̈́̈́̕ ̴̭̠̦̙̘͉̻͌̈́͛̈́̆̌͐̍͆́ͅH̵̛̹͓̐̊͘Ä̶̢̜͝D̷̡͙̬̭͖̪̈́̽̋̕ ̸̨̢̧̳̯̲̫̣͙̀̉̄̇̄̓̓͐̔͝ͅT̶̪̙͉̝͚̗̱̯̖̼̈́̀̾̀Ơ̴̞̮͚͉̣̺͍̻͔͑̈́̓̓͊̆͂̈́̕ ̴̭̣͑̓͗͌̚͝K̶̡͚͎͇͖͇̣̊͆͗̽̇͆̔̈́͘͠ͅI̴̝̭̹͇͕̥̜̔̄̀͋̆́͠L̸̛̫̩͉̰̫͇̻̤̗̃̆͒̐̈́̇͗͌͝L̷̢̮̲̒́ ̷̨̛̰̰̞͔̔̆̂̌͊̆̎̈́̄͜Y̴̧̨̫̻̲̯̱̒Ō̷̡̨͔͚̜̞̘̬̝̹̈U̵̧̱͎̫̱͗̒̈́.̸̭͒̂̉̋̇, make you hollow and add you to his own collection.
That way you'd never even dream about leaving his fucking side again.
The red haired man paused.
His hands flew to his mouth as he began choking, gagging on something he didn't understand. The feeling was excruciating, he couldn't breathe, speak or scream for help as droplets of blood rolled from his plush lips onto his finger tips and he fell to his knees, heaving up white fluorescent petals, decorated in his own blood.
His eyes widened out of shock as he stared down at the mess on the floor. His lungs were tickling him, as a burning sensation took over, but no oxygen was passing through them. His fist balled up and he pounded it against his chest eagerly as he began coughing again.
Another flurry of petals passed through his parted lips along with a small pool of his own blood.
Heart racing, he shook his head frantically, fist banging against his chest harder and harder in an attempt to stop whatever was happening. Something he himself couldn't explain yet he had to fucking breathe, but he couldn't and for the second time today, he was terrified.
He was going to lose his life and there was nothing he could do about it but succumb to the calling of death the burning in his chest was granting him.
A harsh choke bubbled in his throat as another pool of blood and a strained whine escaped his lips.
As his body grew weak, he collapsed against the flowery mess he'd made beneath him. His own blood continued to spill from his lips against the wooden floorboards as the room around him began to spin, his creations doubling in his vision, as they began to rot revealing their true forms as his effect finally wore off.
The final smell of rotting carcasses filled his nostrils as his world finally went black.
𝐈 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐩𝐚𝐝. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 @ 𝐢𝐬 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐒𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇.
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Why I don't like traumacore: A sourced masterpost.
This is something I've been asked a few times, and often the argument used to support traumacore involves art therapy. I figured I'd make a full post explaining in detail why I believe traumacore is often harmful to both the creator/poster and to the viewer. This post will be long; I apologize, but I wanted to make everything as clear as I could. Sources are cited or linked throughout.
Trigger Warnings: Discussion of traumacore, the messages and imagery used within the traumacore genre. Self-harm is mentioned, and suicide is very briefly mentioned as well.
Traumacore is not art therapy, nor is it therapeutic as a whole.
The type of traditional art therapy that traumacore is most similar to would be collage art, which involves creating something through the collection of other images and quotes. However, a notable difference between traumacore and art therapy is that art therapy is undergone with a licensed psychologist; the art is created in order for the psychologist to talk with the patient, figure out the underlying emotions that the art represents, and then work with the patient on how to replace the harmful or negative emotions like shame, fear and disgust with more positive ones. Art therapy is designed to help the psychologist guide the patient towards acceptance of their trauma, which can then allow them to work on healing.
To quote this psychology today article, “No artistic talent is necessary for art therapy to succeed, because the therapeutic process is not about the artistic value of the work, but rather about finding associations between the creative choices made and a client's inner life.”
To go further back, Margaret Naumberg (regarded by many as the mother of modern-day art therapy), used the technique of art therapy to promote introspection in the client. A quote from one of her books, “Dynamically Oriented Art Therapy: Its Principles and Practices”:
“Whether trained or untrained individuals have the capacity to project their inner conflicts into visual form. In this approach, the therapist withholds interpretation, encouraging clients to discover what their picture means to them”.
This is where my issues with traumacore as an aesthetic begin. The vast majority of the traumacore content is not based in the idea of creating the images so as to examine the underlying feelings or undergo self-examination; it’s vent art made purely to be posted and then left.This is not the same thing as art therapy, which is based on the principle that the art should be looked at and thought about by its creator and a therapist to uncover what lead to its creation.
Venting in this way may provide temporary relief, but does not contribute to healing in the long run – as this study on art therapy as a venting method in adolescents says, the art “allows both therapist and client to better address the problem”. In addition, studies have found that venting alone does not cause the emotional distress surrounding a big event (such as a traumatic experience) to go away or even diminish - the benefits can be useful, but are often only temporary. (Links One, Two).
It's also been found that venting can elicit strong emotional responses in the listener; depending on circumstances, hearing someone else vent about a negative event may produce negative feelings in yourself.
(TW for this paragraph: Discussion of traumacore, abuse mentioned, blood and gore mentioned)
This is particularly true with traumacore: The messages displayed are often entirely based on the worst things that can happen to a person, and will also speak directly to the viewer. Messages like “It was all your fault”, “I ruined everything”, “I can’t take this any more”, or sometimes depictions of innocent-looking things (like toys) surrounded by blood, gore or distressing wording are naturally going to cause people with trauma based in those things to be triggered. The language used can often mirror that used by abuser(s); of course that would be triggering to someone who has suffered abuse and trauma.
I myself write poetry about the worst things that have happened to me, and I then discuss these with my therapist. If I were to post it, it would be upsetting and triggering and distressing by nature, because of the very content of the art form. The same applies to traumacore.
There’s also the issue of how traumacore is often paranoia- or delusion-inducing in those with psychosis. Even traumacore that is not created by people with psychosis will display psychosis-triggering imagery or wording. Examples of this is linked here: (Trigger Warning: this links to a post with traumacore that contains religious imagery, delusional thinking and potential paranoia-inducing content as an example.)
This isn’t something that can be excused by trauma, venting, ""art therapy"" or anything else. It’s just ableist. It’s actively damaging to trauma survivors as a whole, and especially to psychotics (such as myself) – whether they are trauma survivors or not. There is no excuse for it.
Traumacore, on the face of it, may come across as a weird-but-useful coping mechanism taking inspiration from the psychological technique of art therapy.
The reality, however, is that traumacore is not art therapy at all; it is inherently vent-related in nature with no focus on introspection, and as a result can be incredibly damaging.
Traumacore often focuses on the messages of the abuser, or on the shame related to having trauma, which – rather than removing power from these – actually reinforces those negative messages through the nature of repitition, and therefore the negative experiences and emotions surrounding those messages. Even going off personal experience alone, I myself along with a number of other trauma survivors I have spoken to have had all sorts of awful reactions to seeing traumacore, including flashbacks, panic attacks, sudden suicidality, and psychotic episodes.
Now, does this mean all trauma- or vent-based art is harmful? No. Lots of art can be created out of negative experiences – as mentioned above, I myself write poetry.
Does it mean that the traumacore, whilst a potential temporary coping mechanism for some trauma survivors, can be incredibly triggering, destructive and distressing to those with trauma and/or psychosis? Yes.
If you want to vent your trauma, there are healthier and better ways of doing so than traumacore. I would say that it’s a coping mechanism in the same way that physical self-harm is a coping mechanism; just because it provides temporary relief does not make it healthy, good or worth promoting under any circumstances.
If you want to take a closer/more in-depth look at actual art therapy, my personal favourite book on the subject is "The Art and Science of Evaluation in the Arts Therapies: How do you know what's working?" by Elaine and Bernard Feder. It goes into what the basic principles of art therapy are, and how art therapy can be used most effectively. In my opinion it's also written in a way that's easier to understand than some of the heavier psychology books.
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