CW: Mentions of intrusive thoughts, violence, and discussions of general mental illness.
I can still remember the first time I clicked on a walkthrough of the grim, grotesque game Bloodborne, and looking back on it, it makes me think of the first times I began my recovery from OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder): anticipating something that might make me recoil, closing in on myself, shying away—moments unlike anything I’d previously encountered—all fall in line with both experiences. What makes it all worth it, though, is the beaming gleam of success I felt after encountering both of these tumultuous experiences.
Although, not classified as a horror game, fromsoftware’s 2015 hit Bloodborne brings forth an array of frightening eldritch horrors, putting them at the forefront—rather than the sidelines—of the huge action RPG. The in-game world resists the urge to “turn on the lights,” so to speak; darkness surrounds the many Victorian cities that the character traverses, both in the endless sky itself and in every detail, big and small, of the settings. Even the location which is meant to provide a moment of solace—the Hunter’s Dream—is littered with gravestones and fog that refuses to lift. A melancholic tune plays overhead as the hunter replenishes their health and a variety of weapons, further surrounding the player in the dreariness and decay of the world they are in. The uneasiness is inevitable, and its fearfulness does not rely on its ability to surprise or jolt you. Furthermore, the plentiful cast of characters within the game scarcely get a chance at a truly happy ending. Sadly, the state in which you find them, more often than not, means they are past repair and can only be shown mercy in the worst way. Examples include the priest of the town, who is found slashing away at an innocent citizen before attacking the player; eventually turning into a full-fledged beast. Not only is the hunter a witness to these tragic storylines, but they are often the one to help move it along its inevitable path. Yet, this is seen as the only way to continue the course of the plot; there is no other option than to sit with and accept the misery.
Over the past few years, I have been a victim of the quickly unfurling consequences of obsessive compulsive disorder. Unlike depression, which leaves those dealing with a numb, melancholic state of mind, OCD heightens every sense, exposing individuals to their worst fears through the repetitive and invasive nature of intrusive thoughts and compulsions. The list of things I have had “spikes”—the term used to refer to rehashes of fear surrounding a certain topic, is endless, and, true to the nature of OCD, silly and fruitless. The most insidious thing about the disorder is it knows what you value most—family, friends, loved ones—and it turns these things against you. The most passionate of devotions causes the harshest and most foul of spikes, therefore increasing the unsettling power OCD reigns over you. The thoughts can either occur out of nowhere, or they can be constantly spilling out, unashamedly relaying themselves in a long list of things scattered amongst my thoughts.
All of the horrors found in Bloodborne are unmistakably human. Whether they were made by the conscious errors of mankind, or they were humans—now turned to beasts, the world of Bloodborne is filled with grave mistakes. The game revolves around the elimination of grotesque examples of a scientific experimentation by the church. Blood ministrations meant to help heal the citizens of Yharnam and the rest of the public instead lead to the unsightly, beastly transformations occurring throughout the gothic city. The tainted blood quickly spreads due to its addicting nature and the pervasive desire to become one with the Great Ones—ancient deities who were said to have provided the blood. One lesson that the players and spectators of Bloodborne come to learn very quickly is that the hunter has very little ability to truly save anyone. Yharnam and the rest of the world is well beyond repair, and your job as the player is to clean up what remains, so as to prevent it from causing further damage to something already broken. The hunter is merciful—the good hunter, they are called, but they are not a saviour. Not even the figures in the game who do heroic acts, such as Eileen the Crow, a hunter who takes down fellow hunters with tainted blood in their system, are widely acclaimed for their actions. She is simply stuck in the cycle of repeating the task as more and more evidence of the church’s sins reoccur.
The perpetual dreariness of Bloodborne, to me, correlates strongly with the workings of cognitive behavioural therapy, which is a common treatment for individuals with OCD. CBT is about sitting with your thoughts and letting them fester without giving into the temptation to explain or interrupt them. The snares of the disorder crawl through you, and you have to sit still and let it run its course. It is hard, and oftentimes anxiety inducing. Every negative feeling you would rather instinctively push away is now at the forefront, its taunting voice ringing “I knew you were awful; all this time you’ve been nasty and foul,” echoing loudly, besmirching and degrading. However, since the darkness of Bloodborne is perpetual and the norm, it somehow makes it easier to digest. In addition to this, a contrast can be found between Bloodborne and modern horror movies. Although a sense of uneasiness often permeates the environments within horror movies, jumpscares–and the scary figures that appear during intense moments–are common. Bloodborne differs from this; as the player progresses and gains what the game calls “insight,” the player can see horrific creatures everywhere they look. Being surrounded by ugliness and the sins of humanity mysteriously makes it much easier to open up to the possibility of sitting with the ugliness of your mental illness. The player must not only be able to sit with the melancholy of the world, but they must also accept that despite killing bosses and eliminating tainted hunters, they cannot completely save Yharnam; such is the same with beginning CBT and understanding your chronic mental illness. Once we begin to become comfortable with the dark parts of ourselves and of the world itself, we can take the first step to unravel secrets we couldn’t have found otherwise. Through a piece of media that’s vastly different from what I’m usually drawn to, I have allowed my love for art and storytelling to expand and grow to heights I hadn’t previously explored. Aside from being an allegory for cognitive behavioural therapy and for exploring personal mental illnesses, opening up to darker genres and fictional universes has made me more willing to incorporate such themes in my own creations, for which I am thankful for. Acknowledging one’s own fears in addition to the grim of the world is endlessly rewarding and interesting. On a dreary night of the hunt, Eileen the Crow overlooks a tarnished Yharnam. The sight is all too familiar to her. She observes, before turning to the player. Noticing the player’s reluctance to explore the city, she utters the phrase: "without fear in our hearts, we're little different from the beasts themselves."
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