It’s around 2013. I’m just about to leave brick-and-mortar school for online education, and I’ve just created my first Tumblr account. Unbeknownst to me, this sets off a series of events that, I believe, has caused me to become the person I am today: chronically online, disillusioned, and relating far too heavily to fictional characters to both cope with and distance myself from my own problems.
Obviously, we all relate to fictional characters. A well-written character is a relatable character. Even the most morally corrupt and controversial characters have qualities we see in ourselves – we’re all human, after all. But sometimes it goes further than relatability. Especially with the rise of fandom in this new technological age, fans gather and are encouraged to share their love and admiration for fictional characters. Fans of a work can relate to their favorite characters so much that they project their own identity onto them, creating a sense of kinship, which has spawned the phenomenon of “kinning,” something Loco Mag writer Belle has touched on previously (if you want a deep-dive into it, definitely check that out). Urban Dictionary defines it as this:
A large community generally centered around “relating” to a character one way or another, also the act of doing so. Essentially, after looking at a character and identifying with or as them, the definitions split.
1. Coping; many people kin characters to cope with their situation or illness.
2. Reincarnation; others believe in the Multiverse Theory and when someone dies, their soul may hop between universes.
3. Just for fun; kinning isn’t that serious, so some may identify with characters for the fun of it.
Back in the olden days of Tumblr, kinning was a serious thing and led to significant discourse. Some people thought that they were quite literally an incarnation of one of their favorite characters, and sometimes real people. Lately, though, the definition has mellowed out a bit. I’m no longer plagued by people online claiming to actually be Nagito Komaeda from video game Danganronpa or a literal, actual dragon. Nowadays, people use the term to mean characters they relate to and have a strong connection with. They’ll express that kinship through purchasing merchandise related to their kin, creating content around them, talking to their friends about them, etc.
This phenomenon has been especially apparent to me throughout the COVID-19 pandemic, where my friends and I have been glued to our screens to pass the time, and in doing so, have discovered comfort and striking similarities to our favorite characters. I was really interested in these deep connections and precisely why they occur and how they influence one’s identity and mental health, so I decided to do some digging.
As a media student, writer, and person with too much free time, I love psychoanalyzing fictional characters. They may not be “real,” but they’re still written by people, and reflect real people’s natures. It’s also easier for me to understand fictional characters than real people: they have internal monologues that the viewer can peek into, symbolism whether it be heavy-handed or subtle, and clear, direct motivations. This makes them perfect subjects for a thorough analysis, and this analysis often leads to deep self-reflection. Why do they act the way they do, and why do I act that way, too? They’re working through their issues this way – what does that say about me?
Writer and researcher Susanne Mathies explains this phenomenon in “The Simulated Self – Fiction Reading and Narrative Identity”
If we feel empathy with a fictional other, our imagination has already started to integrate us into the fictional story in a meaningful way: we let the part of our self that is affected by the conflict participate in the narrative to such an extent that we can build a story of our own. This story is about us, because we are the principal character in our own life, but transported into different conditions. In this imagined narrative, we perform the actions of the fictional other, and we take over the events of the fictional narrative into our own self-in-other-narrative.
We supplement, Mathies says, the story with our own experiences, especially if we relate heavily to the character, whether it be their personality, motivations, or any other factor.
For me, at least, relating to and identifying with fictional characters serves as a coping mechanism. It shows me that there are other “people” out there struggling with the same issues I do, and regardless of those issues, they (in some cases) can still find happiness and security. Kathleen Gannon of Lesley University legitimizes this “Parasocial Relationships with Fictional Characters in Therapy,” writing, “seeing other personas go through similar experiences, such as adolescence, can create a feeling of connection…Characters could serve as a vessel for a person’s fears and serve as a way of attaining mastery of their fears.”
This is especially true for me, especially when it comes to characters that face mental health issues as a plot point. This was the case with Shinji Ikari, the main character of the hit anime series Neon Genesis Evangelion. The series follows three teens in post-apocalyptic Japan who have to pilot mechs to save Japan from aliens called “Angels.” Though it seems like a fantastical tale full of action, the series focuses on the psyche of these teens and their trauma from being thrust into such responsibilities in a ravaged world and is presented in an experimental, artistic, and thoughtful manner. I started watching the series during the Spring ‘21 semester, and while I lived on campus, I still felt isolated and alone, struggling with my physical and mental health. Evangelion and its relatable cast of characters, while very depressing, provided me with the connection and understanding I needed during that time.
The characters may have been fictional, but their emotions were very real, and the show expressed their plights in a way that made me feel understood, and that my own issues weren’t trivial but rather a part of being human. I related heavily to the main character, Shinji Ikari in particular, a young boy that thrives off of praise and uses escapism to cope with his depression and feelings of abandonment and neglect. While his story isn’t a happy one and he suffers greatly throughout the series, his plight helped me understand my own and made me realize I had to turn to healthier coping mechanisms to deal with my depression and anxiety.
Mathies explains that when we see a fictional character’s conflict, we can also recollect and simulate our own past conflict. This leads the feelings towards the fictional character to become stronger, as you’ve both experienced something “together.” Mathies writes, “In order to simulate the fictional other’s feelings as richly as possible, we fill the gaps of the story with our own experiential memories…at this point, we are not only simulating a fictional other’s emotion. We are then also feeling a real emotion, and our own self (in a simulated environment) is the focus of this emotion. A part of our self is now embedded in the fictional other, making the fictional other precious to us in two ways: we care for our own self in the fictional other’s guise, and we care for our own self in a particularly controlled and intense way. The emotions we experience here can persist after the reading process, leading to self-reflection.”
In my case, when Shinji Ikari would lay in his bed listening to music, murmuring “Of course. In this whole city, there’s no place that’s familiar. Why am I here?” I recalled my own traumas. I remembered putting my earbuds in to distract myself, staring up at the ceiling, and wondering if it was ever going to get any better. I remembered going to the library at school at every opportunity, reading on my phone to immerse myself in a fictional world. I remember feeling so alienated in a place (school, in particular) I was supposed to thrive: disabled, anxious, shy. These feelings came up so strongly that I couldn’t help but relate to this depressed teenage boy, and ask myself why I did and what that meant for me.
It could go a different way, too – as Mathies discussed in “The Simulated Self,” if a fictional character we relate to does something we don’t see ourselves doing they can be embodying a reflection of a self we are afraid of becoming. That’s another reason why relating to fictional characters helped me realize I needed to change things in my life. If I just let myself wallow in my misery, I could become more like who I begrudgingly related to, even if I say I’d never make decisions as they do. And it’s not beautifully tragic and artistically color-graded with a somber soundtrack in the background, either. It’s just sad. Romanticizing it will only get one so far, and can even stunt one’s mental health journey. As with all things, kinning should be done in moderation, and with just enough self-awareness that you don’t use it to over-intellectualize and thus dismiss your problems. Knowing about your issues is not the same as fully acknowledging and changing them.
However, for me at least, kinning is just a fun little thing that makes me feel like I better know myself and my friends. It’s truly a neat bonding experience to be able to point at a character and go, “hey, I do that too!” Especially when we’re feeling more disconnected than ever due to the pandemic, I’ll relish in whatever bonding experience I can get – even if it seems a little silly.
