Anxiety clips: connecting trauma between mother and daughter
Fragments of a study into the effects of inherited childhood trauma and the roles of nature, nurture, and fiction

Entry 13: A sea of trees [extract]
— because inversely proportional to this, her sex drive increased.
What, if any, signs of fear and anxiety triggers in adolescence did her mother exhibit? Are there any comparisons to her daughter which can be made?
Catalysts for temporary periods of neurosis point towards loose hairs found on her person, place or things (particularly those not her own); china head dolls with blinking eyes, and plastic dolls with clothes removed; the fear of being locked away in small dark places and waking up totally alone in the world.
Her biggest fear, though, is a largely forgotten one: dendrophobia, the fear of trees. The origin of the word dendro is Greek (meaning tree) and phobia is Greek, too (of course meaning fear).
Largely stemming from a tall tale repeatedly told to her by playful, wind whispering boys in the coming and going household she grew up in. In which said tale, a girl, sharing her own name, gets beckoned into the woods by invisible voices and very quickly becomes hopelessly lost.
In her panic, the girl begins to see things, thinks the gnarled and twisted exposed tree roots have come to life, and started slithering towards her. Her panic multiplies. Adrenalin kicks in.
The roots wrestle away from their grounded home for so many years, and edge towards her.
The girl attempts to turn and flee, but it’s no use, both her feet have been arrested by the raging roots.
At first, she thinks she is going to be able to wriggle free, however, in her distraught state the roots only wrap around her tighter, digging into her skin, blood begins to flow, knees give in and she tumbles, as the lecherous roots drag her from side to side, before yanking her south beneath the earth, where there is insufficient oxygen to breathe.
Years later, a studious friend/brief romance, a fan of the new weird, named Javier Privilege was intensively researching the Aokigahara, a forest found in Mount Fuji. A semi-mythical, but real place, where locals have traversed into to commit suicide. Also known as the ‘Sea of Trees’, this forest is so dense and so old, that getting lost and never returning from within is not just a fear, but for some, it is an inspiration, and a lure for those who have suffered too much in man’s world.
Her friend, Mr Privilege, became so obsessed with finding everything out about an almost lost book from the 1960s, which features this very same forest.
Tower of Waves, a novel by Seichō Matsumoto, is in part about a beautiful, love-torn heroine who commits suicide in this forest. Unable to locate an English translation of the text, her friend, Javier, taught himself Japanese so he could read it.
For a time, Javier saw something in her which matched the literary heroine in the pages. He started to obsessively plan a summer gap month there and it started to scare her, because he wanted to take her with him.
And then, without warning, one evening, her dormant nightmare of the soul raping trees from the story of her youth awoke.
Their relationship did not last.
Years pass and the forest echoes towards her again with the release of the film Sea of Trees by auteur Gus van Sant. She comes across it flicking through a film review magazine and almost vomits when the smell of Javier’s breath taints the air of the living room. She has no plans to ever watch the film.
In later years, the idea of the forest has been used subconsciously as a metaphor, whereby it connotes a mental wandering, or loss, or even exhaustion by way of wordplay: for rest.
One such train of thought is that the forest is a dark place where lots of things happen in nature, often silently, slow and stealthily, the growth of mould and fungi, leaf litter rotting, acorns transforming into grand oaks, but in opposition to this, things can also happen quickly and deadly, the fox grabbing its prey, the bear charging down any threat to her young, blurry whirling chainsaw teeth cutting down the life of the maturing oak.
In this particular case, words seem to be the ideas that both come and go, are lost and found and lost again, fast and slow, in the thick, always thickening forest, between ear and ear.
There is enough evidence to suggest, however, that outside the framework of these timed memories, she in fact displays positive behaviour towards trees, perhaps not to the extent of hugging them, but definitely showing signs of appreciating the beauty of, the cool shade of, occasionally swinging off, climbing on, and writing brief sketches, about them.
It is therefore my opinion most of her fears around trees remain deeply repressed, and even after the aforementioned episodes, her mind is wired to continually try to repress these emergent recollections, thoughts, dreams, time and time again.
If any one memory remains on the wild path through the forest though, it is the one where a much too young baby bird flew from a branch off an ash in their garden, as she watched helplessly on.
Entry 24: Copper Heart [extract, with evidence]
— usually obtained grades within the top 85% of her year group, scoring in the top 90% upon some occasions, with I dare say, and I do as well believe this, she shares the potential to grade higher still, if she continues to study well and develop her wider reading around set topics, weighing down hard towards a particular emphasis on modernism, postmodernism, and yes post-postmodernism as well.
What was her favourite book as a teenager?
Although she probably would have difficulty in deciding upon a single title, going on the evidence of most read, it would be The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. She owned a much-loved copy, all dog-eared and yellow, with a handwritten note, by a unknown author, on the foreword page:
The toil we break down daily,
for stolen moments of meditation: What toll will pay for eternity?
Do you happen to have, perchance, a sample of her mother’s earliest writing for linguistic and stylistic comparison?
Although far from her earliest work, those lost to the refuse bins and hungry mould and stray fires that time often brings, one such piece was recorded in typewriter set, inside a pinewood frame hung on a wall in the family dining room for over a decade. Here be it verbatim below.
Copper Heart
In this particular lifetime, she was born as a young tiger, formed from a scrap piece of sheet copper, by a ghostly presence with midnight hair.
Going by the name of Ember, this man of metal and also melody, who resided at number nine in a house made of dogwood, gifted the tiny tiger to his good friend Brush, who without hesitation, named the little thing, Copper.
Brush placed Copper on his bedside table and she became guardian of his magic rings. He made a promise that first evening to his striped miniature; if she stayed by his side for the next nine years, he would make her really real.
Copper witnessed many a sight, for Brush was less a man, and more of a chameleon of shifting stars, and saw him fall in love with the moon goddess Luna.
In time, Copper was also entrusted with Luna’s rings resting over her tail at night, for it was only when the sun set did Luna ever enter the house, wearing a flowing purple dress, with a white owl called Orion, perched upon her left shoulder.
Luna shared the gift of feelings, and as well as pouring love into Brush’s veins, she too enriched Copper’s frame with warmth and tenderness.
As the years passed, Copper lost her sheen and began to turn verdant as the oxygen silently ate away at her. She started to feel pain, to have many more thoughts. Confusion grew inside her.
Brush and Luna married and had a daughter they named Rosa, who blossomed into a child of the sun.
Rosa quickly grew very fond of Copper and started to take her everywhere. Copper’s previously sharp edges became, at first blunt, then smooth and soft. Her skin, once so reflective and shiny, slowly transformed into warm, snugly fine hair, with divisions of black and orange.
Copper awoke one day to a bouncing, thumping sound coming from inside her. Panic grew fast, but Brush took her in his hands and smiled wide. He told her nine years had now passed, but he had failed her; he could not make her real.
Copper’s face screwed up, as tears began to drip down onto her glimmering whiskers. Brush’s smile though only grew broader. He gave Copper a squeeze and told her although he had not been able to make her real, Rosa had. Her tenderness to Copper and in return, Copper’s warmth towards Rosa, had made the little tiger real.
It had happened so slowly, Copper had not noticed the transformation from metal to hair, but the change had happened all the same, and was indeed now complete.
Although she was still pocket-sized, Copper was now completely real, with a beating heart inside her. With teeth that could bite, claws that could rip, and a belly that could be tickled.
Copper asked Rosa to take her to visit Ember in the fragile woods, which pathways shifted with the changing moon. When they arrived, Ember’s hair was smoky grey, his back bent. He now shared his heart with a tree fairy called Asha.
Upon seeing Copper, Ember broke down, falling to his knees, and cried tears of joy all over his plaid shirt. After changing into a fresh, dry top, Ember sat at his self-made piano, constructed from wood, and played a new song to the tiger. The song was called ‘A Tiger’s Love Forever Burns Bright’.
It was now Copper’s turn to cry and before long her tears had made a shiny puddle beneath her in the recess of the mud. For the very first time, Copper saw herself in her reflection as a real tiger.
Copper smiled at Ember, who continued to play the piano, smiling too. She also smiled at Rosa, who had started to sing over Ember’s chords, showcasing a voice as sweet as a songbird, and a smile to match a sunset.
Later, Copper returned home and was greeted by Brush and Luna, their holding hands connected with trails of ivy. Behind them, Orion the owl was perched on a branch watching a bobbing daisy in the shifting grass. All of Copper’s family were smiling at her and she had no control over the huge smile that shone back at them.
Standing there in silence, Copper felt something inside her. It was coming from the place that bounced up and down. In that moment, Copper knew what it felt like to truly feel love and to be loved in return.
It felt like magic.
It was magic.
Entry 47: Paws [extract]
— because that’s the way it should be.
What lines concluded the first piece of original verse written by the daughter, budding poet, at the age of nine on occasion of the offering of three prizes of £25, £10 and £5 book tokens by the Proteus, a weekly newspaper?
I don’t know a lot about flowers
But I could sit and stare at them for hours
To watch them wobble
To collect their scent inside a bottle
I wish I could watch them whenever
If only I had control over forever
What anagrams did she make of her name in (her earlier) youth?
Aili Sicken
Elias Nicki
Elicia Sink
Lian Sickle
Lisa Nickle
Kilian Ices
I lack nisei
What acrostic of her first name did she (blossoming poet) send to Miss Jennifer Bloom on 17 June 2014?
A bird sings a song for the sun.
Let their music free and follow its flow.
I am me. The world is me.
Call out to me and I shall go.
Everything else can wait. Pause.
What dream story did she cite to her mother on the eve of turning ten?
Beginning inside a river which transformed into a —
Entry 102: A quiet riot [Extract]
Can you give examples of an interest she shares with her parents?
One such project with her father circles around an idea for a new story-led computer game. Based around duo protagonists called Quiet and Riot, twins in age and looks, but strangers in just about everything else. Quiet cannot speak, born mute, walks slower. While Riot, the eldest by seven minutes, has ADHD, is faster, rushes. Last working title to date: A Twinned Story. Never usually one to let the cat out of the bag (but on this occasion be free feline free purrr purrr purrrr) as the story unravels, it becomes clear the game is a basic thesis on bipolar and wants to tell a story around one person who has two opposing sides.
She too shares her father’s love of collecting, see games, cinematic posters, movies on DVD and Blu-ray, trading cards and more. The one collecting habit she shares with her mother is the one perhaps that is of most interest, for it takes place out in nature, there are no fiscal transactions, in fact is almost the polar opposite of such, being a spiritual quest in the search for a specific type of seashell.
Can you shed any connected light on her paternal grandparents?
Any light on which both of them will be illuminated by, I am confident in surmising, will indeed be controlled by the paternal grandmother. She the all-powerful sun goddess. The creator of light. Manipulator of said light, plus a solid bender of truth and sculptor of time. Her chosen life partner is long prepared in the art of finding pockets of shade to breathe in, while simultaneously both chasing and leading her sunshine.
How does her maternal grandparents compare?
They do not, or at least we can hypothesise they do not, for the true identity of her maternal grandmother remains a blur like water flowing down stream. The notion of who her maternal grandfather is, is even foggier. Her mother was raised in a children’s home from a few days old, later to be adopted by a former employee of said children’s home.
Entry 155: Alone Together [Extract]
— on the psychological aspect of crowd experience that links the experience of the artist to the scientific.
Crowds are a vital aspect of our social world — from our city to our stations — so being aware of our behaviour while we are in a crowd is important. The Subject’s early published work Alone Together questioned whether our individuality gets lost when part of a collective movement of others.
“Sometimes we can feel anonymous in a crowd. The incapacity for quiet contemplation can cut us off from our true self and instead cause us to adopt by passive absorption the ideals of others.
“While other times the crowd can become a vital part of our sense of self — just think of the current city-wide tribalism around the missing — as our thoughts, emotions and behaviours can be greatly influenced by the “very loud talk” — as existentialist philosopher Kierkegaard put it — of a crowd mentality.”
Entry 214: Stressors [Extract]
— ing logically beyond the Subject; do, or did, the parents demonstrate coping mechanisms for stress, anxiety, and anything previously listed above in Entry 213?
Habitually, the mother has displayed a reversion to openness. Stress only heightens the personal requirement to close up and shut down. Look to her chosen vocation for Exhibit A, connected to her voracious interest for reading. Physical symptoms include a heavy quietness, glazed eyes and a “regular beeline for dark corners and nooks, attics and basements, spaces with doors and locks.”
In opposition, the father shields any anxieties through his almost OCD requirement to collect; see collection of cinematic one-sheets, computer games, books on architecture, design, space, buildings, bridges, houses, homes, gardens, sheds, trees, wood chopping, mythology, and so forth. Beyond the apparent need to grow confidence, knowledge, or the appearance there of, spasmodic episodes of jogging/running have helped to boost serotonin levels and balance out “jittery” levels of adrenalin. Evidence of self doubt comes by way of an occasional stutter when deemed under sufficient levels of stress, most often confined to work environments.
— be argued an emotional intelligence can be tremendously positive across a variety of circumstances, it would be foolhardy to not be attuned to the fact it also brings its disadvantages.
For one, the classic Machiavellian with their ability to juggle emotions matched with a high emotional intelligence, will have no hesitation to undercut, underline and cause foul play in the name of a fixed goal. A set of characteristics to benefit the solo, lest the few, forgetting the many.
An excess of empathy in the wrong hands can be an ineffective weapon, leading to greater stress levels than those with a lower EQ. This is where we stumble upon a Catch 22: emotionally intelligent individuals are better equipped to read and understand how others are feeling, but this power of empathy can often bring a level of sensitivity which leads to a scenario where EQ individuals cannot perform to their best ability. So much so that their sensitivity to other people’s feelings causes them to navigate around waters that ordinarily need to be sailed through. Therefore, we can hypothesise, with some confidence, that EQ individuals often do not make the most effective leaders, particularly in the long-term.
The weight of evidence suggests emotional intelligence might be helpful in—
Entry 233: 7 [Extract]
— denotes completeness or perfection.
What, if any, religious, or connecting or opposing ideologies, based around the number were, with hindsight, connected to the Experience?
Usually one to absolutely shy away from any religious attentions, she can credit her mother-in-law’s devoted prayers of hope and almost injurious fascination with numerology, for the received jumble of knowledge associated with the number.
This includes, but is no way exhaustive of, an awareness that the number occurs more than 700 times throughout the bible and 54 times in the Book of Revelation, which itself refers to seven churches, seven angels, seven seals, seven trumpets and seven stars.
She also has the understanding that Israel captured the city of Jericho after marching around it seven times, while Solomon took seven years to build his temple. Job had seven sons and the great flood came seven days after Noah went into his ark.
Equally as prominent in her mind, is how in the story of Joseph of Egypt there were seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. And Christ spoke seven words from the cross.
Adding to her prior awareness of there being seven deadly sins, this recently gained wisdom included a listing of the seven virtues: humility, chastity, kindness, patience, abstinence, diligence and liberality.
As well as a short tour of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World (listed here for completion; the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the Statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus, the Colossus of Rhodes and the Lighthouse of Alexandria), she was also given the rundown, and a thorough photo tour thanks to Google Earth, of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World (the Great Wall of China, the Taj Mahal in India, the rock city of Petra in Jordan, the statue of Christ the Redeemer in Rio de Janeiro, Machu Picchu in Peru, the Chichen Itza pyramid in Mexico and the Colosseum in Rome), which only fuelled her ambition to holiday abroad under happier circumstances.
Entry 236 Property [Extract]
— chose to abandon the set homework and proceeded to present the below entry, typed up, on copier paper.
Many have long, soft, spirally curved bodies, unlike their harder cousins.
They protect themselves from predators by salvaging an empty seashell, into which they retract into.
Without a shell, despite the size of their ego, their desire and courage, their ambition, they will end up only one way.
The way to survive is to hide. This is not cowardice, but adaption to live.
As they grow, they require larger shells. If they remain in only one they cannot grow as fast as they would in well-fitting shells, and are more likely to live in peril. No room for favourites.
They cannot remain still. Nature does not let them. Forced to react. Never resting. Always up-scaling.
As it grows, they must find a larger shell and abandon the previous one. They have to get used to the life of a second-hand shell.
Always eyes open. Always seeking new. Always on the move.
When an empty shell is found, they will leave their own one and size up the vacancy. If too large, they retreat back to its own shell and waits by the empty one.
Others arrive and inspect the space. If the void is not the right fit, they too wait and form a line, holding onto each other, from the largest to the smallest.
When someone of the right size arrives, they claim it, abandoning their old shell instantly. Triggering a rapid chain reaction: the others swiftly exchange shells in sequence.
Sometimes though a new shell is just not available. A makeshift needs to be resourced. This could be anything. A tree nut hull, or piece of beach litter. Something cavernous and alone.
Anything than go unprotected.
Only a writer knows how dangerous a writer is.
Never trust a writer.
They’re forever on the look out for new shells. For armour and as armoury.
Too big? Or are they too small?
Writers go on alone to discover.
To progress, to survive, required abandoning all. Despite where there is comfort. Despite where there is love. All in search of the hope of new growth.
The writer. Nature’s liar. Keeper of doors.
[Final] Entry 247: Us/We/Are [Extract]
— by hand on a napkin, written in hasty black scrawl…
Us/We/Are
born from an affinity of stars
coughing on the miasma
the thick stink and greed of humanity
into an infinity of sin.Where do we begin?
Where do we end?
Us/We/Are
all circles forever chasing our own tails
all circles forever chasing our own tails
all circles forever chasing our own tails
all circles forever chasing our own tails
all circles forever chasing our own tails
all circles forever chasing —
