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October 22, 2021

“Why Not? Writing Down the Pain; Writing Freedom” explores the power of writing about painful trauma.

Photo by Dziana Hasanbekava on Pexels.

I came across the sentiment recently:

“Please do not write upon this page.”

“Why not?”

As a writer, I love this. As an abuse survivor, it’s a further call to action. Indeed, writing “on this page” has helped me heal, time and time again.

But come on, you and I know it’s not that simple, right?

Why is that? What’s stopping us from “writing it down?”

What are We Afraid Of?

Well, perhaps…

We are afraid of remembering the terror and the pain.

We are afraid of being discouraged:

We are afraid of making it fact (real).

We are afraid writing this down will constitute the entirety of who we are.

If we have gone through painful trauma and loss, most of the time, we tend not to want to remember and think about it. We can self-medicate, self-isolate, avoid, and shut down. Here’s usually where addictions and unhealthy relationships can factor in. Here’s where we usually want to numb ourselves. Here’s where we usually don’t want it recorded forever.

“Please do not write upon this page.”

Only, very often, the word, “please” is negated. It is a demand, not a request.

“Do not write upon this page.”

That demand can come from other people, abusive people, even. But, perhaps, more significantly, it is self-imposed. We don’t just plead within ourselves not to make something that is horrific, become permanent and real for us. We can often demand it not be so.

That’s what I did with some of the deepest traumatic events in my life. It first started with my eating disorder behavior and then extended to mistreatment from toxic relationships. I did not want to admit it was real. For the longest time, I did not record the truth of what I was doing in my diary. Despite my erratic weight fluctuations, despite the interventions on my behalf, despite my compromised values and my low self-worth, trusting the wrong people, believing what those harmful people said to me, I could not accept it or write about it. I did not want it to be real. I did not want what was happening to be my life.

Somehow, therefore, I reasoned, that if I could just leave my voice, through the written word, out of it, it would not exist. Better yet, I could make every trace of it go away, and rewrite my history, all by refusing to write at all!

“Do not write upon this page.”

It was a set up for failure. Gradually, my refusal to accept and express my truth translated into a complete loss of my voice. I mistakenly believed that not writing the pain down would empower me. I thought I wouldn’t be held captive by it. I would overcome it. The exact opposite, however, happened when I refused to write it down. I felt I had no release valve. I was the silencing jailor.

That’s a hopeless place to reside. I hadn’t counted on that being the case.

It took me years to first, admit, and then, write about what happened to me. I convinced myself it didn’t happen, or at least, wasn’t “that bad.” It was too painful and scary to write about it. The thought of doing so threatened a certain self-image of myself, one that I did not want to let go of. That self-image was, largely proclaiming how I was not messed up. I was not struggling; I had it together. I was “the good girl.”

Much of the difficulty accepting my truth hinged on the eating disorder stigma, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. The disorder was a symptom of something more significant, meaning, my “messed-upness” of emotional disturbances and unmet needs that were far from neat and tidy, far from elegant or pretty. And I wanted to look and BE attractive, pulled together, strong, and immune to having deep-seated problems that, yes, required professional treatment.

Write It: Why Not?

“…the truth shall set you free.

John 8:32

Imagination can often be worse than our reality. Living in a world of catastrophizing and avoiding instead of practicing the radical acceptance of “what is,” we, perhaps, can feel safer and more in control. Our self-image is protected.

Or is it?

I’m sure you’ve heard a version of the saying, “the truth will set you free, but first, it will upset you.” It’s that sense of being destabilized that can liberate us. It wrecks the lie of human perfection; there is no such thing. It shocks us out of idealization which can harm us, especially concerning abusive situations and people. It reminds us that, yes, life can be brutal, unfair, and painful.

But, while it is these things, we have beauty, purpose, and value simply being in the world.

“The pen is mightier than the sword.”

Looking at documentation of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the pretty, can help us to keep things in perspective. Our written word, in the moment, is a way to release poison and emotion. In hindsight, our written word can be viewed, perhaps, more objectively, through the lens of time and “lessons learned.”

You and I don’t need to be Dickinson, Shakespeare, or Steinbeck. We need to be honest, as ourselves with our lives. It can have humble beginnings like stabbing the paper passionately because we’re despondent about our trauma. It can be deeply encoded, cryptic, and mysterious poetry, whether it rhymes or not.

The writing is first about us, then others. And if we want to help others, truth, brutal truth, is mandatory. Lies set no one free, especially if we insist on telling them, or operating with “lies of omission.”

Everyone is on their own timetable. But knowing there will be a time when truth is told can be approached as liberating, not imprisoning.

“Therefore, whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the housetops.”

Luke 12:3

It has to do with our perception of it.

Therefore, let’s perceive freedom and liberation as we write. We deserve both in our lives.

 

 

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