‘I“When you’re not feeling well, you just re-traumatize yourself,” says Anna Akana, who is performing her show “It Gets Darker” at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe this year. In it, she talks about the suicide of her sister Kristina and how threats of violence from a stalker drove Akana herself out of stand-up comedy.
Trauma-focused shows have always been a staple at the festival, and countless plays and comedies have come out of it. Countless artists have felt the catharsis of processing their darkest moments and the burden of reliving them every day.
Akana’s story, of course, has been compared to Baby Reindeer, which began on the fringes of society. Richard Gadd’s play, now a Netflix hit, dramatized his own experience of being stalked. But there were serious consequences: The woman at the center of the story sued Netflix, raising questions about the ethics of her exposure versus Gadd’s right to tell his story.
Are writers and artists thinking more carefully about how to process their traumatic experiences in stage shows this year? James Barr’s new show Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex to My Mum) tells the story of an abusive ex-boyfriend and takes audiences on a journey that reflects the tension and uncertainty of a toxic relationship. Edinburgh-based comedian Eleanor Morton subtly weaves experiences of sexual assault into her show Haunted House, which tackles the city’s sinister reputation while also looking at the darker side of the fringe. “Sex offenders are like ghosts,” she jokes. “When a woman meets you, no one believes her.”
Here, but also beyond art, there are “perverse incentives” to share one’s trauma, says Darren McGarvey, author of Poverty Safari and The Social Distance Between Us. He speaks from experience, as he dealt with his own childhood trauma in his first book. But he had not foreseen the personal costs: “As soon as something becomes public, it no longer belongs to you and an image of you then exists in everyone’s mind.”
McGarvey has hosted several shows in this framework, Trauma Industrial Complex, in which he examines these incentives as well as the rights and well-being of the storyteller and those connected to their story. To do so, he has spoken to academics, activists and artists such as Janey Godley. This is part of a larger project that includes a podcast and will culminate in a book. “One of the problems with the discourse and culture of lived experience is that we are dealing with people who could be vulnerable, but there are no comprehensive protection mechanisms in place,” he says. “If your trauma is not healed, you will experience negative consequences that are directly proportional to the positive ones.”
When Akana first tried to talk about her sister’s death, “I suffered post-traumatic stress disorder,” she says. It also led to difficult interactions with the audience. “People would come up to me and say, ‘My father committed suicide.’ It was so hurtful and provocative, even though I was talking about it on stage.”
Years later, Akana has processed everything in therapy and discussed these experiences on her YouTube channel. There, she works on suicide prevention – the constant working through of the memory has smoothed out her edges and the idea of keeping her sister’s memory alive now brings her joy. “Sometimes I cry,” Akana says. “Every now and then, no matter how many times you do it, you really feel it. But the idea that I’m going out there and helping one person is really worth it.”
That desire also drives Barr and Morton. “Women who have been through similar things like to see women talk about it on stage because they may not have the opportunity to do so in their own lives,” says Morton.
Barr believes discussions about abuse are rare in same-sex relationships. “It wasn’t just for survivors and gave me space to deal with it, but it was also meant to force people to take responsibility,” he says. At first, he wasn’t sure comedy was the right medium for his story, which includes harrowing moments of physical abuse. But he noticed that the classic rhythms of stand-up comedy reflect elements of abusive relationships – good times punctuated by tension and deception. By creating that experience for audiences, he hopes, “If you can see what abuse feels like, you won’t condone it.”
Morton talks about an award-winning comedian who tried to force his hands into things where they weren’t wanted. Her experience happened about ten years ago, so she’s distanced herself from it. But recently a friend revealed that an influential Fringe event organizer had attacked her in her sleep. Not just her: several women. He was at Fringe events last year and Morton remembers that she “couldn’t believe he had the audacity to show up.” She realised that many friends in the industry had had similar experiences with other people.
“The Fringe Festival is haunted by these men who come back every year,” says Morton. She uses the show to haunt them again. “Almost as if to say: I know. If you come to my hometown and do things like that, I’m going to confront you.”
Baby Reindeer raises questions about the broader responsibilities of storytellers. “There came a point during the episodes where I started thinking: What has to happen for the public to realize that these are real people?” says McGarvey. “It was this insatiable appetite for the lurid details of some really grim situations.”
When McGarvey recounted his own childhood experiences, family members connected to his story felt the impact. “I’m not responsible for how other people interpret things. But I do feel a responsibility to the people close to me to make sure they’re informed,” he says. “How do they feel when they’re exposed in this way?”
Morton has chosen not to name the men who attacked her and her friends, partly because she wants to discuss it as a systemic problem that is still part of the fringe, and partly because she is eyeing legal consequences. Barr is also not naming names and has sought legal advice. “It’s safer here because you’re not on Netflix and showing it to millions of people,” he says.
Both spoke about their shows with loved ones so that none of the content would be a shock. Barr invited his friends to an impromptu performance and asked if they thought the show was a good idea: “The support of my friends and family has boosted my confidence.”
Akana was able to safely name her stalker and reveal details of what he had done to her—showing up at her house, sending her disturbing gifts, death threats—because she had obtained a restraining order, so it was all public knowledge. But ethically? “In earlier versions, there was more resentment and anger toward him. But I thought to myself: He’s someone who is mentally ill, and it’s not his fault either.”
When she talked about Kristina, she was accountable to her family. “My parents had never spoken to me about my sister’s suicide until I told them I was doing a special program,” she says. They opened up and checked the facts together.
Everyone should be aware of the limits of their own story and their power as a storyteller. “We fill in a lot of gaps; we attribute intent and blame to others,” says McGarvey. “Sometimes that’s justified, sometimes it’s speculation. There are a lot of gray areas with people.”
All of them firmly believe that artists should be allowed to tell their own stories. Referring to Baby Reindeer, Akana says, “That was a true story and (Gadd) was a victim. If we silence him, are we in some way silencing the victims?”
Barr agrees. “If I hadn’t talked about it, I would have felt like the same person I was in the relationship: weak, silenced, hiding,” he says.
“What is art if not people telling their own story?” says Morton.
Finding the right time and place to talk about your traumatic experiences is crucial, McGarvey says—what’s appropriate in therapy may not necessarily be appropriate on stage. “It’s important to share an experience, but it’s important to share it at an appropriate depth, depending on the context,” he says.
Barr prepared with the help of therapy, support from friends and by working with Madeleine Parry, the director of Hannah Gadsby’s Netflix special “Nanette.” Morton says she’s seen people in the past treat the performance like therapy, bringing raw experiences to the stage when they clearly weren’t ready for it. “You want to project an image of vulnerability and authenticity, but it’s theater and you need that distance,” she says. “Don’t watch anything that’s going to give you a panic attack in the middle of the show.”
Do artists feel pressure to work through their trauma? “I don’t think there is pressure, but I think our art has the greatest impact,” says Barr. “You reach people by telling the truth.”
And the truth can be cathartic. “I hope that everyone is able to process their trauma and make something constructive out of it,” says Akana. “Because otherwise you just have trauma.”
Anna Akana: It Gets Darker runs at Pleasance Courtyard until August 24. James Barr: Sorry I Hurt Your Son (Said My Ex to My Mum) runs at Underbelly Bristo Square until August 25. Eleanor Morton: Haunted House runs at Monkey Barrel Comedy until August 25.
