How Writing Deepened My Healing

Sharing my writing with my coaches and therapists helped them (and ME) see me more clearly

How It Looked for Me

Every Friday at 8am I would sit in front of my computer and wait for my therapist, Peter, to arrive. A diffident and giddy older gentleman with wispy white curls of hair, he was genuinely excited by the act of unearthing and discovering who people are on the inside and he’s as patient as a bear waiting for salmon.

The idea of waiting for months, years, just to get someone to realize for themself where their blindspots are. I couldn’t do that. I watch Peter cock his head, scribble down notes and I find myself wondering, who does he see, what does he think about me, am I really as capable of curating my image as I think I am?

I used to think therapy was yet another chance for me to shine and to perform. To showcase my intelligence and demonstrate that I’m fifteen steps ahead of the therapist. I almost thought that I was paying them to prove that they couldn’t do their job. If they didn’t come up with a diagnosis or an answer then, I assured myself, they had failed. In reality I was trying to put myself beyond reach and prove to myself that I was unsalvageable. In reality, I now realize that a good therapist is a trip guide and a shaman. They don’t give you the outcome. They just help you understand and live inside the process. The process is honesty

And that’s where I struggled.

I had a deep reservoir of words and a rapid-fire mind, which made putting on a realtime performance far too easy. And every time I did it now I knew it. I could feel it. I could hear honesty’s footsteps running out the house. The door shutting behind. The car engine revving and the screech of wheels as it pulled out of the driveway, panicked and eager to escape.

I could see honesty looking over its shoulder with one arm on the steering wheel driving away. The city lights fading into an androgynous blur as the real Benjamin was left behind in the center of the crowd leaning into and searching for the applause.

I knew this now. I could sense the flavorless emptiness on my tongue in every automated interaction. The hollow recognition that most people had never really met me. And that I’d never really met them either. Just sent my messenger ahead to do the paperwork.

But it’s never too late to let people in. I just had found it tough. Excruciating almost.

But put me down at the computer and let me write. Let me start with a scene and locate myself within it. A memory stirs and the fingers tap and honesty comes flooding out. The Benjamin on the page is the real Benjamin.

I was still working at getting the pen-wielding-Ben to walk out the front door and get their ink on others, in hugs and handshakes, kisses and smiles.

But I start that process with Peter.

“You reveal more about yourself when you read me what you’ve written than I think I get from anyone in the rest of my therapy practice.” Peter once said, leaning in with his penetrating blue eyes in front of the laptop camera lens.

“It really is stunning, Ben. You paint such a vivid and honest picture. It’s heartbreaking. I don’t think we’ve really talked about any of those things in the two years I’ve been working with you. How does it feel to read that to me?”

“It actually feels really good. Like, I know that it’s good writing. I didn’t think I’d ever hear myself say that. Own the quality of something I’d done and be proud of it. Thank you.” I said, feeling the power of the ability to receive love, receive the compliment and sit with it just for a minute.

“It’s like the words have replaced the drugs.” He says. He’s on to something. “You used the drugs to give you false confidence and to set you free. But they trapped you. Now the words, when you write alone and you’re not around people who make you want to pretend, they’ve become the only way you can be honest. Thank you for trusting me enough to share them.”

And it is about sharing. I realize that real relationships should be mirrors, not stages. If the mirror I hold up only reflects who I want people to think I am. If I can carefully manicure my interactions, then there’s no magic. Just a sleight of hand. And the audience always spots a fake.

But with just the right combination of words, I realize it’s possible to summon a bridge from the depths that connects us all to each other.

All this time I had misunderstood the dynamic. In therapy and in life. It’s not about intelligence, or proof, or validation, prancing performances or glimmering turns of phrase. It’s about truly being seen and working hard to find the best way to be seen.

And one of the only ways I can be seen is through writing.

Each week I would read to Peter. Each week for just a few minutes of our session I’d fill the silence with a true story. The story I never wanted to tell anyone. My story. And in that space, the nuances of childhood experiences came alive: buried secrets, hidden torments, a life almost entirely kept in the dark.

In that space an opportunity opened up, one sentence at a time, in between whose lines I find freedom and where, after the comma, I would share my future and myself with someone other than just me.

How it Can Look for You

You don’t have to be a writer to do this. A way with words or a passion for the pen is great, but not necessary. All you need to do is…begin.

Take Notes During the Day: You can start by jotting down your thoughts during the day: what is coming up for you? What is the conversation going on in your head? How do you respond to people, places and thing? Are you experiencing things in a particular way today? Perhaps you’re noticing the butterflies, the birds, or perhaps the incessant noise at the grocery store? Are other people filling you with curiosity, joy or dread?

Start the Day with a Poem: in your morning routine, perhaps you could scribble down a few lines, a few rhymes and see how that exercise makes you feel.

Start Writing About Specific Memories: if you’re already a writer, or if you have specific incidents or experiences from your life, especially from your youth or the more standout periods of your life (the highs or the lows), start getting it down on paper. Try to engage your senses: what did you see, smell, hear, feel or taste? Who said what, and what happened next? If you have trouble recollecting, a tried and tested Provocatively Authentic technique is to lie down, close your eyes and imagine a smell which is almost certain to have been around at the time. For me it was the smell of onions in my childhood kitchen. Follow the smell and see what that opens up. All of a sudden, following the onions, I rediscovered the design of the wallpaper in a room I hadn’t visited in 20 years.

Once you have some material, and if you’re seeing a coach, or a therapist, see what it would be like to share the writing with them. You might find that you’re able to share in a way hitherto unavailable to you and your coach. You may find it opens doors and unlocks entire expanses of growth.

Maybe, just maybe. But you won’t find out until you start writing.