Is Memoir Writing Therapeutic?
Contributor

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?

 

 

 

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Comments
  • Susan Ring

    Yes! 

    My writing has ripped my soul open. I've gone into places I didn't want to go, and when I went deeper than I thought possible - I only found more beautiful treasure about myself with my memoir. It wasn't easy though, sometimes it was excruciating but so worth it. More than anything my writing has helped me make sense of why I am, where I am now. I AM  

  • Lene Fogelberg Writing

    Thank you Bella for sharing. Yes, it's been absolutely therapeutic for me. In writing my upcoming memoir I saw my life in bigger perspective and identified so much to be grateful for. I agree with what you write that writing might be needed to get this perspective.

    The most traumatic experiences around almost dying needed to be written down, for me to get at peace with them. 

  • Karen Lynne Klink

    Writing my first novel was absolutely therapeutic for me. I had not consciously planned it to be, but one character, in particular, ended up with nearly the same childhood trauma as I had. At one point in the first draft, I avoided one difficult scene by rushing through it, and didn't realize what I had done until I reread it months later. Rewriting that scene was extremely difficult, and made me face emotions I had never dealt with. My father died before I could ever face him but, in a way, I faced him when I wrote the novel.

  • Cheryl Rice

    Thank you for your powerful post, Bella. Yes - gratefully, writing has almost always been therapeutic for me. And never was this more true than when writing my memoir, Where Have I Been All My Life?, which deals, in part about my experience of falling in love - or something like it - with my therapist after the loss of my mom. Writing about difficult experiences and emotions often gives me a sense of mastery over them. And I'd love to recommend the book Writing as a Way of Healing by Louise DeSalvo. Her beautiful words encouraged and inspired me when I was in the messy middle of my writing and therapy journey. Peace.

  • Patricia Reis

    Dear Bella,  thank you for your very evocative post!  I am a writer . . . and a therapist!  I work with women artists and writers!  I have just sent my memoir to my agent.  I consider writing a non-negotiable assignment.  I consider "therapy" in the original sense of the word "therapeut", the Greek word which has to do with healing of the soul. How could writing - or creative work of any sort - not be concerned with soul?  Or with consciousness?  We have learned to compartmentalize "therapy" (which has it own protocol) with self-exploration - and writing (with its own protocol) with creative expression.  I find the most vibrant space is the "in-between" - where self awareness and creativity and craft join hands to form what we call art

  • Hope J Lafferty

    Writing has always been therapeutic for me. I discovered journaling while I was in high school, which offered me an outlet both to explore the process of my thinking and to develop my perspectives on my world. I've turned to this type of personal writing throughout my life, often as a place to sort out my feelings around the secrets I kept and as a substitute for having an actual conversation in the times when I felt more alone than connected. I have felt compelled to write every day for as long as I can remember---and actually feel itchy if I can't find time to write, even if only for 10 minutes. So for my day-to-day writing practice, I do find writing therapeutic.

    That said, writing my memoir is not. To me, it often feels quite the opposite. Since my memoir is actually about being a therapist, I've thought a lot about this issue. I wrangle my memories and my emotions to turn them into accessible language so others might join me on the ride. The work cannot exist if emotional expression doesn’t evolve into something more thematic. More universal. Like therapy, sometimes I enjoy writing my memoir and sometimes it’s excruciating. But to get to that point of clarity in my writing, craft wins.

    I love that you raised this issue. Thanks for the thoughtful post.

  • Linda Joy Myers

    Dear Bella, I love this post, and understand completely what you are talking about. I love that you mention Pennebaker's work, which i think is some of the most important research that has been done connecting the writing process with healing. I talk about his research in my book The Power of Memoir.
    In writing a new memoir now, 15 years after Don't Call Me Mother, and years of healing and processing that has come in between, I still stumble upon painful stories, but the great news is that I see "what happened" through a new lens, and that my writing, and feelings, are different. Each book makes its demands on us, each story has its own life and wisdom. I work as a therapist as well, and see so much connection between the processes that we encounter when we go deep into our stories in both therapy context and writing. I think that scenes are like a magic key that can open up new layers of ourselves. That is happening to me in the new memoir--it's a whole new adventure.
    Best of luck as you encounter your life and your stories as you write. I'm sure it will be powerful for you, and transformational.