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Today, I went up the small mountain behind our house. Originally, I had planned to go during my designated “Sunday health-care time” (though these days, since my condition hasn’t been great, almost every hour feels like health-care time, haha). My mom suggested we go together today, so I agreed and followed along.

We walked up the hiking trail and reached a resting area where there were some exercise machines. Among them was one of those devices where you’re not quite sure whether it’s meant for sit-ups or for hooking your legs in and lying back at an angle to get a sort of inverted effect. At my mom’s suggestion, I tried lying on it once. I held onto a rope with my hands to keep from sliding down and looked up at the sky. The view was exactly like this. My eyes felt refreshed, and the sound of birds was pleasant to listen to. The insects were annoying, but while I was lying there, they didn’t really bother me. Maybe when I get a bit healthier, I’ll try hiking more often. It really does make you think that people are meant to live near greenery—and maybe that’s why houses near green spaces are so expensive.

As I lay there looking at the sky filtered through tree branches, I noticed a similarity within complexity. “Was it called a fractal index?” Humans are said to feel more comfortable when experiencing a certain level of complexity. This is because the structure of the brain resonates with the structure of nature. Natural forms—tree branches, leaves, mountain ranges, clouds—generally have fractal structures. A fractal dimension (or complexity index) refers to forms that are irregular yet self-similar, possessing complexity beyond simple repetition.

If a straight line (one dimension) is defined as 1.0, and a completely filled plane as 2.0, then tree branches fall somewhere in between. The complexity index of a scene like this is estimated to be around 1.6–1.8.

Brain waves—especially alpha and theta waves—are also analyzed as signals with fractal characteristics. When we look at fractal structures in nature, the visual cortex of the brain can process the richest information with the least amount of energy. According to research by Richard Taylor, viewing images with a fractal dimension of around 1.3–1.5 can reduce stress levels by up to 60%.

Things that are either completely simple or excessively complex tend to make us anxious. Natural fractal structures are complex yet retain a degree of predictability. From these patterns, our brains receive a sensory signal that says, “This is safe and familiar.”

There’s also an interesting perspective here. The way the sky peeks through leaves and branches can psychologically provide a sense of sensory protection. In psychoanalytic terms, it has been compared to the structure of perceiving the outside world from within the womb. (Why does psychoanalysis so often resort to metaphors involving the womb or sexual organs? These are metaphors and terms that can feel uncomfortable or delicate to use in everyday language. Is it the result of an unfiltered contemplation of the human psyche?)

In any case, I will likely live my entire life being vulnerable to stress. It’s possible to manage symptoms that interfere with daily life, but the concept of a “complete cure” doesn’t really apply, because the past doesn’t disappear. In that sense, although the illness was shaped by environmental factors, it wouldn’t be wrong to view it as a kind of biological imprint. Still, with proper treatment and care, I can live as someone who is simply a bit more sensitive and cautious than others. With good management, I can live as someone who is just a little more delicate and thoughtful than most.

So I wondered: even if it’s not real nature, could there be a way to use this in psychotherapy? If I expose myself to fractal structures, wouldn’t that help with stress management? And if stress is managed better, might that lead me to become a more delicate and considerate person? So I looked into it.

• Nature Scientific Reports (2017): A group that watched VR-rendered forests or beaches for five minutes showed a statistically significant reduction in stress levels—comparable to being in real nature.
• Lancet Planetary Health (2021): Experiencing VR natural environments significantly reduced depression, anger, and fatigue within 5–15 minutes, while increasing vitality.

A related theory is Attention Restoration Theory, which suggests that nature stimulates gentle attention, allowing depleted concentration to recover. Nature recreated through VR follows the same pathway, relieving mental fatigue.

According to game psychologist Rachel Kowert, nature in games functions differently from real nature—it is perfectly controlled and safe. For people with PTSD or anxiety disorders, it can serve as a non-threatening environment.

There are also cases where immersive natural art, such as TeamLab’s installations, uses the interaction of light and nature to create a sense of vitality and help restore a sense of self-presence.

In the U.S. and the U.K., installing digital nature—moving forests, waves, wind sounds—in hospital lobbies and patient rooms has become a trend in hospital architecture, aimed at reducing perceived pain, accelerating recovery, and easing anxiety. This approach is known as biophilic design.

As these examples show, even without going directly into nature, we can encounter fractal structures through “constructed nature,” and this can help with stress recovery and restoring a sense of self. This isn’t just true for someone with C-PTSD like me—it applies to all humans. Everyone lives carrying their own forms of hardship and stress. Perhaps even taking a short break while watching videos of natural scenery and sounds on YouTube can provide a sufficient moment of recovery.

What’s interesting is that recovery doesn’t mean complete rest. We feel comfort and recover within fractal structures because they provide an appropriate, manageable level of stress. In other words, recovery doesn’t happen in a place entirely devoid of stimulation or stress. It happens—though the threshold differs from person to person—in environments that offer tolerable, enriching stress.

#Thoughts_No_20250606

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Seven Years of Depression, Twenty-Seven Years of Complex PTSD

Early recovery responses commonly described by professionals

1. Emotional flashbacks
Emotions replay as if from the past, even without a triggering situation—tears, helplessness, excessive guilt, and the like.

2. Somatic release
As the body begins to release tension on its own, it may respond with drowsiness, pain, tears, or similar reactions.

3. Confusion phase of recovery
A period of uncertainty about whether things are improving or getting worse. Most people in recovery must pass through this phase before entering a more stable stage.

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Lately, I’ve been overwhelmingly sleepy, and tears sometimes flow for no apparent reason. Could this be a common intensification seen early in treatment—an aggravation that occurs as defenses weaken and self-awareness expands, a kind of emotional release?

If so, the concerns in such situations are these: when emotional regulation collapses beyond control, when sleep disturbances worsen, or when self-harm impulses or severe dissociation emerge.

In my case, I have experienced severe dissociation. It felt as if my soul were separating from my body. By “soul,” I mean the location where I perceive my body to be. In other words, the actual position of my body and the position I perceive it to occupy become different—sometimes subtly, sometimes starkly. When I moved even slightly in that state, the affected part would go numb. Moving my head, in particular, combined with visual input to trigger intense motion sickness. I truly felt close to dying. I vomited, broke out in cold sweats, couldn’t breathe properly—it felt like being on a small fishing boat battling a violent storm in the open sea. I honestly wondered whether I needed to call emergency services. Since that day, I haven’t experienced dissociation to that degree; what remains is a chronic, mild numbness in my hands and a lingering sense of queasiness.

I don’t have self-harm impulses. I do sometimes scratch myself unconsciously until my skin breaks or bleeds, but that isn’t something I do deliberately or with intent. What I’ve noticed instead is a faint suicidal ideation—not strong enough to act on, but thoughts like “I want to die” or “I wish someone would kill me.” Standing in a high place, I might think about what it would be like to fall; when a car passes by, I might imagine jumping into it. Still, survival instinct—or a stronger sense of “why bother?”—prevails, so I don’t act on these thoughts. If this were simply a worsening of symptoms, it could be a dangerous psychological state that leads to suicide. But if it’s a temporary intensification within recovery, time may resolve it.

People often say that at times like this, you should try to express your emotions clearly. I thought about keeping a journal, but I don’t have the energy to write by hand. I actually like handwriting—it feels expressive and satisfying, and I think my handwriting is aesthetically pleasing. But now it takes too much effort. So I write like this instead. Typing is less exhausting. I assume most people, busy with their own lives, will pass this by—and that’s fine. I’m just leaving it here. If, for any reason, you didn’t pass it by, I hope you’ll simply think, “I see,” and move on. I’m receiving counseling and taking my medication properly. Still, therapy and medication are only supportive tools; unlike physical illness, this is something I ultimately have to overcome myself. The symptom is a lack of will, yet recovery requires will—what a paradox. Perhaps this points to the limits of current human treatment methods.

That’s why I sometimes wonder: what if we created a different kind of solution? One where you don’t have to strain yourself, go to the hospital, or ask for help—where you simply live your life and gradually get better. An AI solution combining AI + healthcare + games + DTx (Digital Therapeutics). But there’s so much to study. If I were healthy, I think I could do it—but can I, as I am now? Even if I try, I don’t know when I could make it happen. This field is a frontier—could I stake a claim on that high ground?

#Thoughts_No_20250605

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