Sea of solitude bottles12/16/2023 ![]() Psychology is messy, murky, and Sea of Solitude gets at that with inconsistent metaphors, opaque symbolism, bottled messages to the self (an intertextual nod to The Police), and gameplay that shifts with the protean landscape we’re required to traverse again and again. Different representations for different traumas, all separate but intersecting. As with Kay’s traumas, we often have to use symbol and metaphor to get at our own, to understand, communicate, and reckon with things we’d often prefer not to name, let alone realize, that are too immense and painful to grapple with initially. We spend most of the game touring psychic landscapes as we platform across sorbet-colored European architecture or skim over the sea of the unconscious in our little propeller boat. As grounded as it is, Kay’s journey is far more interested in a grounded metaphorization than clinical realities. This is a game about mental illness, even if it eludes that distinction. In this way, it mimics my own experience with trauma and recovery. Answers are given and taken away, and then recapitulate and recontextualize themselves. ![]() Kay-ashen, red-eyed, and monstrous-is our protagonist. ![]() The kind that builds up while we push it down and ignore the blood seeping from our knees and elbows as we try to carry on-distracting ourselves from how it crusts on us like barnacles, loading us down until we no longer recognize ourselves or our loved ones. The sticky, mud-like kind that cakes and cracks and stings because of the thousands of cuts and abrasions we’ve accumulated. And as protective as these measures are, when the sense of isolation becomes overwhelming, it’s hard to ignore that this drowning feeling is partly one of my own making. It takes a lot to open myself up to relationships filled with as much hurt as joy, as draining as they are innervating. I go through this because it’s too unbearable, too exhausting to be vulnerable. Sometimes when family calls, I just let the phone ring, not even hitting the ignore call button. My sister and I have engaged in a mutual, unacknowledged communication armistice for nearly a decade. He’ll ask about what I’m writing, and then go off on an MSNBC-fueled tangent about Donald Trump, or tell me about how he’s modding flight simulators now. Half the time I’ll pull out my phone, hesitate over the call button, and then flip over to Twitter instead, desperate for any awful thread I can bury myself inside of. It’s been years since I’ve seen my mother.
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