I recently read Monkey Mind: A Memoir of Anxiety, which explores anxiety as experience, rather than pathology. In “A Conversation with Daniel Smith,” at the end of the book, the author was asked if the experience of writing his book was therapeutic.
He writes, “There were moments when writing about my past difficulties with anxiety stirred up old worries,” he said, “but these moments were surprisingly rare for the same reason, I think, that I didn’t really find any therapeutic value in the experience—because the day-to-day problems involved in writing Monkey Mind were literary and not clinical: how to tell the story well, how to describe something so elusive and complex, what to put in and what to leave out, where to put this comma or that semicolon, etc. I like to keep things separate: writing at the writing desk, therapy at the therapist’s office.”
While I understand and appreciate Daniel Smith’s literary concerns, and know what it’s like to ponder these questions, I was taken aback to read, “I didn’t really find any therapeutic value in this experience.” Really? I thought. How can this be? Sure you’re busy making literary decisions, but what about all that content? What about the fact that you’re able to write about it now? What about the changes that have taken place since you lived through those terrifying times? What about what you’re learning now, as you write, as you continue to grow—and dare I say, heal?
For me, writing synthesizes everything I’m experiencing, both consciously and unconsciously. It brings to light thoughts and feelings lurking beneath the surface, oftentimes just out of reach—until they tumble out onto the page, revealing claws and fangs, or a soft, white belly, or hungry, pleading eyes. Writing is like stirring a cauldron of stew; I never know which of life’s ingredients will beg to be blended, or which ones will sit, agitated and stubborn, until I write them into being. It’s an adventure. A journey. A process that resolves and settles issues deep within, and points me toward as many questions as answers, which, at the end of the day, tend toward the therapeutic.
I don’t see how one can separate and neatly compartmentalize writing and healing. Mirriam-Webster defines the word, “therapeutic” as, “producing good effects on your body or mind,” and “of or relating to the treatment of illness.” There’s still so much we don’t understand about life, disease, and healing, but writing, restores health if you allow it. In my post, Journal Writing Is Good For Your Health, I discuss the work of psychologist, James W. Pennebaker, whose clinical research proves that writing “is good for our emotional, as well as physical health.”
“Therapy” wears many faces, and is activated in places well beyond a practitioner’s office. Healing can happen over the telephone with a loving relative or friend. It can happen through an unexpected exchange with a stranger at your local grocery store. It can take place while immersed in an art project, or singing in the shower. It can happen in a yoga class, or in your own backyard, while watering the lawn. It can happen while strolling through a garden on a spring day, surrounded by beds of daffodils and tulips. And it can happen at your writing desk. It doesn’t have to. It’s not a requirement. It’s a gift offered to anyone open to receiving it.
A few months ago, reluctant to resume work on my memoir, I feared that revisiting my own anxiety would make me relive it. This was one of the reasons I was intrigued to read about Daniel Smith’s experience. The pre-Socratic Greek Philosopher, Heraclitus of Ephesus, said, “You can’t step twice into the same river.” Like the current of a river, life pulls us forward. Writing about a challenging part of your life doesn’t necessarily bring it back, not the way it once was. You may be reminded of your struggle. You may feel some of the sadness, anger, or guilt, but if difficult feelings surface, it’s an invitation to clear them at a deeper level. It’s an opportunity for healing and growth, a potentially therapeutic moment. These possibilities surround us daily, whether we’re writing or not. All we have to do is recognize them, and act.
The great thing about writing about challenging times is gaining perspective on what they’ve taught you. You’re in a different place now. It’s safe to move forward, and who knows—maybe telling your story will heal you in ways a visit to your therapist’s office never could.
Is writing therapeutic for you? If so, I’d love to hear how?
Sorry I never responded to these. Better late than never.
Rita Gabis: What's your memoir title? It sounds amazing. Thanks for your rich comment!
Jo Anne Valentine Simson: Your comment made me smile. So true!
Karen Szklany Gault: Thanks for sharing your wisdom.
Pamela Fender: Amen!
Thank you for your article on memoir writing.
Not only has my memoir been a therapeutic experience, but let me add, healing, cathartic and most of all...emancipating. I just wrote and wrote and wrote. I was on a mission. What a feeling to be able to write down and publish my truth.
Life is good and I feel free.
Yes. Recently wrote a short "autobiographical" essay for an anthology and enjoyed the process. Time I spend engaged with my creative side is a time of healing...of moving forward. Have written Morning Pages, and as part of a group. It keeps me connected with the most authentic self.
Absolutely! Writing has served as therapy since I began a diary at age 13 to obsess about an impossible crush. The diary, now called a journal, has served that function for years (much less obsessive, fewer crushes, more existential angst, more goal-setting). And short stories made villains of those who tormented me (or others) without my having to exact actual revenge.
Wow--what a great piece. I'm in the process of proofing first pass pages of my memoir before galleys. I'm lucky in that I had an incredibly supportive editor who totally believed in the story my book tells but in all honesty, I'm just beginning to feel liberated by the journey the memoir took me on. At the center of the book lies one of the darkest periods of our history and that darkness and a family member's possible involvement in it made for a brutal five year haul. The work did not feel healing, however, the stories of my interviewees--what they lost, what they lived through--made my pain seem trivial. I don't know that I could write a memoir just about my own singular experience--I don't know that I have the stamina or the emotional bravery. However, I was determined to document the astonishing lives of those who shared their stories with me and are at the heart of my book. That is what allowed me to push through. To all you memoir writers whose work was/is primarily intimate, centered on your own life events--bravo!! I believe it's harder, often, for women, to take on this task and so very important.
Cate Warren: Stunning comment! Thank you for taking the time to share your wisdom here!
Patricia Reis: Thanks for your wisdom here. I too feel that writing is “a non-negotiable assignment.” And I appreciate your bringing the soul into this discussion. Love what you say about "the most vibrant space is in the in-between, where self awareness and creativity and craft join hands to form what we call art.” BEAUTIFUL!
Cheryl Rice: I LOVED your memoir, which is filled with such wisdom and light! I love what you say about writing giving you a sense of mastery over life's challenges. I think I've read Louise DeSalvo's, Writing As A Way of Healing, but can't find it on my shelf. Maybe it's on my iPad. If not, I'll order it. Thanks for the recommendation. Congratulations on your exquisite memoir. It was so welll done, and very inspiring!
Karen Lynne Klink: I absolutely believe you “faced” your father when you wrote your novel. How cool. There's a higher intelligence at work here. I often see my students and clients—and myself too!—skip over the tough bits. The key is to do what you did: come back to them, and patiently, lovingly, unpack them! Good for you. Brava!
Lene Fogelberg: I hear you. I'd love to read your memoir. Please let me know when it's out.
Joan Z. Rough: Thanks for sharing. What you wrote is lovely—and inspiring!
Helena Greaney: I know exactly what you mean. When I write, I try to stay out of my own way. I tell my students and clients that their job is to create space for whatever wants to be expressd THROUGH them. We are vessels. And I agree with you about looking for something to read that's been written from inner spaces. I don't think I've ever heard it described that way before. Thanks for your lovely words.
Hope J Lafferty: Yes, of course, craft is essential. What separates journal writing from memoir is this sculpting process, transforming emotional experiences into art with universal themes. I'm not suggesting this be ignored or compromised in any way. I'm saying that, lawyered underneath this literary, artisitc process, a subtle, yet powerful healing occurs. Oh, and I totally relate to feeling “itchy” when I don't make time to write! Thanks for your comment.
Linda Joy Myers: Thank you for putting this so beautifully: "Scenes are like a magic key that can open up new layers of ourselves.” This is part of the gift, our opportunity as writers and healers!
Linda Joy Myers: Thank you for your comment. I just ordered your book. Can't wait to read it!
I applaud Daniel Smith for his honest, informative, and well-crafted memoir, and highly recommend it to those who are anxious, as well as those who live with or love somebody who is. His comment about keeping writing and healing separate inspired this post. It was hard to believe somebody with his insight and powers of description wouldn't be cognizant of the subtleties of healing—and the ways in which writing—even literary writing—brings them forward.
Marcia Mabee Bell: Absoltuely. I couldn't agree more. It sounds like we have the same editor! But still, universality as a given, it's hard for me to believe one can write a memoir without healing one level or another. One may not be conscious of this process, but Pennebaker's research proves it is present. The great memoirs I've read aren't focused on “self-discovery.” Their authors understand they need to provide readers with take-aways. The "discovery" and healing (therapeutic value) is something that happens “behind the scenes,” on deeper, and sometimes unconscious levels.
It may be that Daniel Smith is very focused on providing a book that will inform his audience and not trying to solve an internal problem on the page. I just asked my male domestic partner about the comments below on male brains and compartmentalization. He said he honestly wouldn't be interested in reading a book that is focused on self-discovery - too inward focused, not focused enough on the audience. But I believe women readers/audiences very often want that; I think they seek it out in many venues of their lives But I am also reminded as I write my own memoir that my excellent editor frequently challenges, "What is the reader take away here?" I believe part of the motivation for writing my book is absolutely therapeutic in nature, but I have to work to ensure the scenes convey a universality that truly informs the reader.
When I write I try to connect with an inner flow--an inner world that wants to be expressed in words....When I look for something to read, I think I look for people who write from these inner spaces..
Susan Ring: Yes, I know what you mean. Thank you for sharing this.
Ladies: Thank you for these amazing comments. I am grateful to be part of this community. I'm taking off for NYC next week, and am busy getting ready, but I intend to respond to each of you before I leave. Thanks for your patience—and for your insightful, heartfelt words!
Charlene Diane Jones: Thank you for your wise and thoughtful comments. The "How do we heal" question is central to my life. We are all healers, and yet we give our power away—to doctors and other experts. I do. And yet, when I turn within, when I trust my own inner powers to heal, amazing things happen. We KEEP ON GOING because no matter what happens to our bodies, our souls remain strong, purposeful, and radiant. We are not our bodies. We are not our thoughts. We are so much larger than what happens to us. I agree that perhaps the male, more than the female brain, tends toward compartmentalization.
For myself writing what happened gave me a sense of completion over the ugliness and pain. I began writing the event almost immediately it had taken place. That's over forty five years ago. I wrote it again and again, while I engaged in body therapies, bio energetics, deep release breathing, Vajrayana meditation practices that helped me resurrect my flesh from the zombie land of paralysis and numbness that became my home after being raped and tortured. Along the way as I kept writing and added dream work to my list of practices, memories of my brother's humiliating incest and my mother's intermittent psychotic beatings and verbal abuse rose to be healed also. What compels me is a simple question: how do we heal? Writing has been at times something that has offered release into beauty and harmony, other times offered a way to dive into the chaos and brutality. It has also through talking honestly with other women and through this site opened and renewed my sense that so many of us are raped, brutalized and YET WE KEEP ON GOING. What does this mean? for one thing I am struck dumb by the power of women, of humans yes, but of women to endure and go on to create enriched and meaningful lives. My head is bowed to all of you, all of us, who have walked a path of healing.
Great post, Bella. Writing my memoir has been extremely theraputic. It wasn't easy reliving some of it, but I found it the most healing thing I've done for myself, including talk therapy. Writing about my life, was a way for me to act out what had happened to me, in the privacy of my studio. By reliving the tough stuff I became much less anxious about the baggage I'd been carrying around for so many years, and began rediscovering my own identity.
Thank you Bella. Your post intrigues as do the many warm and insightful comments. I wonder what part gender has to play here? The author of Monkey Mind is male, while all who have written here are female. The male brain does compartmentalize. I wonder also if he is comparing what it was originally like to experience his anxiety with what he experiences as he writes. Writing memoir reduces the impact of the original experience on the person who experienced it (the writer) just as well written memoir encourages readers to experience something close to what the writer first felt. Anyone have thoughts about this idea?