Just the other day I was unhappy and had no idea why. I lay on my bed in my dorm and stared at the ceiling. I didn't feel like reading, writing, watching TV, or actually getting up and getting dressed. I didn't feel depressed or hurt or sick or lonely, I just felt bad. So finally I forced myself to get out of bed and put on some clothes. I grabbed my journal and I went for a walk.
Salem College has a beautiful campus, and the walk itself was probably somewhat healing for me. It had just rained, so the humidity was gone for a while, and I walked along past red brick buildings that had been there for hundreds of years, and then down the sidewalk under the shade of trees until I reached the coffee shop. I found the most private place I could with my tea, at a table outside, and I started to write. I hadn't been away from the eyes of people I knew and whose opinion I cared about in days, so just being alone at that table lifted a weight off my shoulders. I wasn't checking my phone, and I felt strangely absorbed in my surroundings. A Segway tour came rolling into the parking lot, and a woman in an electric wheelchair came over to talk to the owner of the tours, who also owned the coffee shop. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that she was wearing colorful, mismatched socks. The conversation floated to her life story, and she said she had moved from Bangladesh when she was thirteen and lived in Asheboro, NC, the place with the zoo.
While all of this happened at the edge of my consciousness, I wrote. I wrote about everything that had happened the day before, but not in a way intended to capture every detail for posterity. My focus was emotional. What had happened that day to leave me with such a confusing bad feeling in the pit of my stomach? I wrote and wrote, following every idea that came to my head, but with no real design or plan. I was lost, the only thing I could rely on to guide me was some part of me that knew the truth but would only reveal it slowly. The thoughts coming to me seemed to be leading me in a particular direction, so I followed. And eventually, writing achieved for me what it does at the best of times. It broke through my confusion and helped me heal.
Why does writing have this ability? Is it just a way of ordering your thoughts, or a way of releasing them? In a way it's the same as a tearful confession or ranting to a friend, except you don't have to worry about having someone you trust to talk to, or losing their good opinion. A piece of paper isn't going to judge you.
M. Shannon Hernandez of the Huffington Post writes about her own experience with journaling as a means to work through a difficult divorce. For her (and for me also) writing is a way to slow down thoughts and become present. Since humans can think faster than they can write, writing forces a person to take the time to really process their thoughts. For me, this helps catch jumps in my thinking process. When I am drawing illogical conclusions, I realize that they don't make sense on paper. And when I slow down, I can separate my thoughts from my emotions. The other benefit that Hernandez highlights is the ability to recognize patterns. She kept a continuous journal and was able to go back and read previous entries to notice patterns that she created in her life, and from there was able to correct her behavior to avoid continuing in circles.
Writing is also frequently cited as a means to overcome trauma. Psychologist Dr. James W. Pennebaker has studied writing as a method of healing and written several books on the topic. He views writing as a way to take a step back from life and view it in a more coherent manner. The people who benefit the most from writing, he says, are those that can form a coherent narrative out of a confusing event, view it from different perspectives, and use language that shows complex thinking such as ''except'' and ''without.'' His exact method of using writing to overcome stressful or traumatic experiences is this:
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi,
translation by Coleman Barks
More resources about writing and healing:
https://www.utexas.edu/features/2005/writing/
http://www.oneyearofwritingandhealing.com/
http://writingandhealing.org/
http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/overcoming-child-abuse/201103/writing-and-healing
http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/stop-walking-eggshells/201211/heal-writing-about-your-trauma
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/m-shannon-hernandez/journaling_b_4171453.html
http://www.apa.org/monitor/jun02/writing.aspx
Image sources:
https://www.utexas.edu/features/2005/writing/
http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/2011/HEALTH/06/29/writing.healing.enayati/t1larg.writing.healing.enayati.ts.jpg
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