Transcription
[Applause]
Depending on where you meet me, you might run into someone different every time. If you see me after a gig, you might know me as Jaguar Jones. Whenever or wherever visual art is involved, I go by Spectator Jones. Or, if there's a tiny camera in my hand and I'm chasing the light, I also respond to Dusky Jones. These are the names of my different creative aliases within music, visual art, and photography. But today, you can just call me Dina Lynch.
Who was once your everyday corporate business analyst. Even saying that out loud is so strange for me. To remember that once upon a time, I wasn't always making art. That most of my life was spent crunching numbers. Growing up, I was so removed from art that all I thought I could ever do was strictly maths and science. So I studied engineering, then business. Got hunted to be a business analyst and fulfilled my role as the perfect daughter of an immigrant family. All I could think about every single day in that job was what I was going to eat on my lunch break because I didn't love what I was doing.
I've now changed my life completely. Every day, I work on my visual art and my music. But for me, making it my everyday isn't just about the act of creating. As for me, art has been the biggest foundation in helping me overcome my complex PTSD. Complex post-traumatic stress disorder is similar to PTSD, except the condition affects those who have lived through long-term trauma, such as months or years of abuse. For me, when my complex PTSD is triggered, I'm a whole different person. I see it as emergency mode for the brain. I think the best way to explain it is likening it to a prey threatened in the wild, and sometimes having to play dead. Or, I like to call it my "bunny mood."
And because mental health in the world I grew up in was never, ever, ever allowed to be processed, I became this hectic, multi-layered onion of unaddressed trauma, dissociation, detachment, depression, addiction, panic attacks, and anxiety. I had no idea what my human rights were. I had no idea what boundaries were, let alone how to enforce them. I had no idea what healthy relationships were. That foundation I was raised on bred this continuous cycle of abuse and trauma well into my adulthood. I constantly let it just walk on in and take a seat at the dining table because I thought abuse was normal.
It was a long, turbulent process for me to be able to find the courage to express myself, even slightly. Because to remove myself from the safety of suppression meant that I had to confront the trauma head-on. And once that happened, my memory would unlock even more nightmarish episodes that were hidden under the cloak of denial. It would continue to test me into wanting to retreat back into the safety of suppression. Initially, it all felt like chaos. But art and music helped me put it out there, rather than letting it bounce around and shake up in here. Three years ago, I wouldn't have even been able to tell you that I suffer from complex PTSD, and now I'm doing a bloody TEDx talk on it.
[Applause]
Music was a saving grace for me. Music was my way of having a relationship with myself, and my way of having a conversation with the person that should matter the most, which is me. I used it as a bridge between functioning in my everyday life, as well as feeling the actual emotion underneath it all. I struggled, and I still do struggle, with being honest with myself and my emotions. Because to survive for so long, I separated myself from my emotions, put it in another room, and concreted that door shut. But music started opening that door for me, little by little. Now, most of the time, I'm able to fling that door right open and be like, "Brain, meet emotion. Let's mingle. Let's get sexy with each other, and let's procreate to make some song babies."
But how did I even get into music in the first place? Like, I am so glad I had such a need to release that I didn't even think about imposter syndrome. I had no skills, no experience, and zero knowledge about music theory or the industry. I didn't write or play music previously. But after a certain traumatic event, I think that was the tipping point on how much I could keep holding inside. Distraught with grief, I was walking home one day and passed a garage sale. It was there and then that I decided to buy my first guitar at 18. Except, I didn't learn how to play the guitar. To be honest, I still really haven't. Instead, I started writing songs to take the trauma out from inside my body and place it into another vessel. It was out of desperation to release, so it didn't matter if the song had three Z chords, no chords, or was technically boring. And it still doesn't matter now. I'm not Mozart or Eminem. I'm really not Mozart or Eminem. But I did always have one rule for myself when it came to writing music: don't put rules on where I navigate lyrically. Sometimes, when I'm writing lyrics, I will put my pen down and realize, "Ah, that's what you're bothered by." Like my music was a Ouija board, and I was performing a séance with my own ghost. It was a form of catharsis and understanding for me to explore topics that I never wanted to go near in direct conversation. And sure, early on, my music and lyrics were heavily coded and encrypted with laser beams, and I was trying to like, dodge them and do the laser dance like I was in Ocean's 12. But as I write more songs, I'm finding that the dialogue with my subconscious becomes more fluid, more open.
The release during performance became another form to deliver and respect these revelations that my subconscious finally entrusted me with. Through performing as Jaguar Jones, I've been able to reconnect with my body, reconnect with my mind, and begin to feel emotions. I slowly came out of survival mode and started understanding where my complex PTSD came from. I gave myself permission to come out of hiding. I gave myself control over my emotions, and most importantly, I gave myself validation for the trauma that I had gone through.
After I developed a relationship with myself, I had to work on my relationship with others. Complex PTSD made that extremely difficult for me with the dissociation, detachment, and trust issues. And as I grew more aware of my trauma, the feelings of isolation also came hand in hand. And that's when Spectator Jones came about. She's a visual artist who interviews subjects and turns their stories and battles into art. She tries to raise awareness on mental health and trauma to help her subjects realize, as well as those looking at the art, that they are not alone. I brought her about not only for others, but mainly because I needed it. I needed to find that connection with other people again. Through other people's trust in me to open up and share, they've allowed me to do the same. It made me realize that in relationships, you have to give just as much as you take. And it's through these conversations with people that were going through similar challenges that I've been able to undo so many of my own. Collaborative art taught me that I wasn't isolated, that they weren't isolated, and we, in fact, had each other. From there, the community around Spectator Jones became a place of honesty, openness, and vulnerability that we can all connect and learn from. And for me, it became an exchange of healing.
Slowly, I gave myself the liberty and happiness that I had always deserved. I realized that everything I had been through as a child was not my fault, but I shouldn't let it ride out my life as an adult. I had the power to change it, and I found that change through my art. I still have a long way to go, but I've learned to be truly honest with myself and let the world in. I broke away from the constructs that I was brought up with and learned the necessity of talking about mental health. People so patiently and beautifully taught me that a conversation through whatever channel and through whatever creative expression that you resonate with can make a world of difference.
But is art the answer to maintaining mental health for us all? I'm not here as an expert, but I do believe that there is an artist within each and every one of us. And that little artist I've nurtured over the years has helped me with my own struggles, and I truly believe it can help someone else out there too. And if you're asking yourself, "What if I'm not good at what I want to create?" then I would answer that with, "Give yourself the permission to do what feels right." Because when you create art for yourself, it shouldn't be about how skilled you are or whether or not other people will like it. So much of what we feel, be it depression, trauma, and anxiety, often can't be put into words. It's an overwhelming blur that never quite makes sense. But you know what else doesn't have to make sense? Art. Because when you create something, you're telling your truth. You're leaving an expression, an imprint of your expression into the world. Whether it be a 15-minute drawing, starting a visual diary, coloring in, drawing a self-portrait, crafting a lullaby, a song, pending a poem, writing a story, writing a TEDx speech—actually, do not write a TEDx speech, just so much pressure—dancing, crocheting, sculpting, knitting, whatever the hell suits you. And through the process of creating, I am sure you will also find your own truths in this world and build up the most important relationship in your life: the one you have with yourself.
For me, it was only when I started to give myself the permission to speak to myself through my art that a lot of my symptoms started to lift, so that I could grab my complex PTSD by the cheeks and say, "Hey, now listen to me. We're gonna do this my way now." And look, let's be honest, sometimes it is overwhelming. Sometimes I still let it win. But you know what? That's okay. Because creativity is a slow process, and healing, healing is an even slower journey. And the irony of feeling like you're alone when you're struggling with your mental health is that every single person, every single person has a shade of trauma, anxiety, depression, their own demons, illness, vices, inclinations, quirks, doubts, pain, and suffering. So to whoever needs this: own your body and use your voice. Do not mistake vulnerability for weakness. Break the patterns and cycles of abuse in your life, including the abuse you inflict on yourself, and make a change. Music and art didn't just change my life, it saved my life. And I can confidently say that my complex PTSD no longer takes a seat at my dining table. It's not a blanket solution to each of our mental health struggles, but I do truly believe that art and music has this, like, powerful way of initiating dialogue when we are yet to find the strength to do it in direct communication with ourselves and with others. Fight every single day because it does get easier. Tell your truth. Express yourself. And keep creating. Creating.
[Applause]
Creating.