Note: this reflection is intended for people who have read the book, themes are linked directly to how the story ends. ***Major spoilers ahead*** If you haven’t yet read Piranesi, please go read the book, then return here.

Let’s dive right in.

There was a trend I saw floating around where people with disabilities are addressing the lack of shared realities that are considered “normal” for able-bodied people. For example, “I wouldn’t know if I miss my sight, I’ve only ever known the world blind.” Or, “I’d think noise 24/7 would be overwhelming.” It is a trend worth addressing on many levels, as it normalizes the abnormal, and takes away the pitying narrative of “something lost.”

In my field, I have come to notice a similar destigmatization behind closed doors, and that is people who were raised in traumatic environments. It doesn’t matter how many times I remind a client, “that isn’t normal,” the conversation will only ever be intellectually received, never fundamentally shifted into knowing what a “typical” childhood is meant to be. It doesn’t matter what you multiply it by, 0 x any number = 0. 

The closest I have gotten to with my clients is helping them name the needs that weren’t met in childhood, and helping them reconcile that exiled part that was labeled as “needy” or “defiant” or “too much” or even “problematic”. However, no matter how detailed of a picture we paint together, the client cannot replace their abnormal upbringing with a conceptualized “safe” home. Which brings me to today’s topic: normalization of the abnormal, with the help of Piranesi by Susanna Clarke.

Piranesi is a weird book. It warps anthropology with labyrinths, magically-driven cults with reality, and a character who has found normality with the abnormal. Whenever I have recommended this book to someone, I give zero hint into what the plot is, because it truly is a book best read blind; nothing can prepare you for the style, arcs, or location-as-a-character aside from, “this book is weird and very much worth your time.” 

As much as I would love to break down the plot and story bit by bit, what is relevant to this reflection is the conclusion. Our titular character learns that the labyrinth he has called home is a prison, and Piranesi is a hostage by an in-between-worlds cult leader. He has no memory of a before-time, only familiar with the never-ending maze and its personality quirks. He is ultimately rescued and returned to the real world where he reunites with his family, learns his true name, and is reintegrated into society– you know, where jobs and life and rules and expectations exist. The book closes out on a note that has left many readers discussing what really happened. 

Maybe it’s the fine line between romanticizing trauma, maybe it is the reality shift we experience along with our first-person narration, or maybe it’s something more, but Piranesi ultimately recognizes that the world he loved and the memories he keeps are objectively “bad” and come from an oppressive person intentionally choosing harm. However, the rigidity of true communal society, and the brand new world that is “good” is also often suffocating for a person who only ever knew time as free. In the world where he is rescued from evil, he can no longer use his prisoner name, and he cannot share about the labyrinth with his family, because their relationship to the prison is not that same as Piranesi’s.

We read along as Piranesi chooses to secretly reject his birth name, frequently slipping away, to return to the labyrinth, for nothing more than an opportunity to breathe and recenter in what he spent so long believing was normal. One other character may come and go from this labyrinth, and she seems to be the only one to recognize the beauty behind the evil, and she makes space for the dichotomies. Otherwise Piranesi is alone in carrying the duality of being saved was right, but he misses the time before he knew the truth.

It is an especially complicated emotion to hold when we have experienced pain or abuse to fawn over the good times in between the bad. It can feel incredibly lonely when you want to share a lighthearted memory, but the world around you– the one that loves you and treats you right– recoils at the name of the person who caused you harm. As a trauma therapist, it is a balancing act of building enough trust to hear about the good, while standing firm with the victim that they cannot return to before. That their safety and wellbeing must be the priority, but it is okay to grieve the loss of good in a bad situation.

Finding the good moments in between the bad was an act of resilience, and it keeps victims alive through indescribable pain. Hopelessness is a measurable factor in someone’s ability to heal and recover from any illness or injury. Whether we want it or not, our mind needs opportunities to find beauty, laughter, and reasons to keep going in even the darkest of moments– leading to some dark and twisty jokes and shared laughter of objectively atrocious horrors (Frankl, 2006). It’s how our brain protects us. And those protections don’t simply switch off because someone illuminated the reality of the situation. You will always remember you snickered at that funeral, or had a really great night at the movies with the person who routinely hurt you otherwise. 

Despite the shock or concern a loved one might have that you talk nostalgically of a time long-gone, there is nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about that you hold that time in a complicated space of, “I know I can never go back. But I miss the type of good I lost in the process.” The human brain is built to always return to the familiar, even if it hurts us, because at least our brain has evidence we survived the familiar pain. Once we shift into new, healthy territory after chronic exposure to unhealthy or abusive homes, we are experiencing our first time witnessing how the rest of the world navigates safety and stability. It’s like overstimulation from a cochlear implant. Is it good? Yes, but how do we turn it off for a chance to breathe? Because even when something is objectively good, our brains are likely to perceive the new as a threat. Unlike a cochlear, we don’t get an on/off switch from escaping a traumatic event, and that’s equal parts good and painful. An entirely new type of pain we have never experienced, which makes our brains say, “am I dying?”

Like Jeannette Walls in The Glass Castle (2005), children who are raised in environments that make no sense still live their lives only knowing one childhood. The Glass Castle opens with Walls begging her mom to accept help, but also reckoning with the shame of feeling embarrassed about her mom’s lifestyle now that she is removed from the environment. Love doesn’t disappear simply because you have more context. Walls writes a redemption arc for both of her parents, as she cannot fully reckon with the possibility of her childhood being something unforgivable. She treasures the good memories up until the last page, remembering her dad as the man smart enough to give her the whole planet Venus, rather than the parent who did anything but protect his children.

I am not endorsing remaining in situations that hurt you or other people. However, I want to encourage loved ones of victims to understand that leaving a familiar space is extremely difficult, extremely brave, and will naturally come with bargaining the good times. Your normal is not their normal, and they’re starting with multiplying from zero. They know they must let go of the past, but they cannot forget the before without losing a part of themselves. And expecting anyone to deny a part of themself is not fair. Walk the line with caution, do not endorse returning, but allow room to understand that sometimes we’ll wish we hadn’t learned the truth quite yet. Because memories are not regression, but a piece of the puzzle to who we are.

There are few books that I have read that allows a character to return to their before without romanticizing the traumas, and even fewer who have done it well. I believe Piranesi did a fantastic job in dancing that line. We are not meeting a character who says, “I wish I was still trapped against my will,” but instead we have someone who is asking, “why did I have to lose so much in the process of learning the truth?” And I can not emphasize enough that it is a normal and expected feeling to have when your understanding of the world around you is ripped away, and you’re expected to adhere to a world you otherwise never would have known.

References

Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning (I. Lasch, Trans.). Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946)

Walls, J. (2005). The glass castle: A memoir.