write to heal

magical thinking, here after and grief camp

I have always been drawn to memoir as a way to connect to my grief. To better understand it through the words, worlds and experiences of those personal stories and reflections. This and poetry as audio books, are my first recommendations when folks ask about grief books in those earliest days. I do love a book in my hand, but there is something so nurturing, held and melodic about being read to, don’t you think?

Joan Didion’s memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, was the first I had ever read about a sudden loss. It was written in 2005 following the sudden death of her husband, writer John Gregory Dunne. He suffered a heart attack at their New York City apartment, at the dinner table. My mom Ellen died in 1993 of a brain aneurism at the beach at Sandy Hook National Park. Joan was there. Mom was alone.

Photo by Neora Aylon on Unsplash

I dipped a toe into writing to make sense of her death. Long a fan of a tiny pink diary with a heart shaped lock, I had loved to write. Being a paid writer for work, I had to make the designation part of a grief tending practice.

In school I had long been taught by writing teachers not to write too close to the heat. Writing from the red hot center of an inciting incident can make a memory faulty. Maybe we are still in the anger of an open wound. Not sure I buy that as much as a griever any longer. Lots of good studies too, like Expressive Writing Words That Heal, by Dr. John Pennebaker that say it not only helps, it heals.

I was not sure how close to the pain Didion had written her story back when it came out. But it was visceral for me as a reader. I felt mine, when I read hers. Years later I felt the same when reading Amy Widdowson memoir, Here After. First person, present tense, graphic and gripping about the sudden death of her husband Kurtis during a half-marathon. They wrote from so close to their experience I have seen firsthand how it helped me and my clients.

Part of Amy’s journey, was to journal in her early and devastating loss. To make sense of her pain through writing. When I interviewed her, she told me it was an assignment from her grief therapist. These writings turned Substack, turned USA Today Bestseller, were hot on the page. She shared how important it was for her to make the book itself a smaller cut, shorter chapters and include more white space so that grievers could meet it, even when they were making sense of their own grief. Small enough to tuck in a pocket or small purse. Bite sized chunks to digest even when grief fog is in full effect. I loved learning about these thoughtful and gentle invitations she crafted for readers.

Didion said, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I am looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

She saw writing not as a way to express thoughts she already had, but as the actual method of discovery itself. The act of writing was how she made sense of the experience. The idea that she could not make sense of what she thought until she wrote it down. She interrogated the details of the evening like a stealth reporter with her journalist chops on full display. I had the unbelievable experience of sitting with her archives at The New York Public Library. One piece that took my breath away was the doorman’s log. It jogged her timeline of the evening.

There are so many details missing from the day my mother died. I have been piecing them together for decades like a crime junkie. From “what if I had been there” to calling years later for her hospital records from Monmouth Medical Center and writing the eulogy I was told I was too shocked to give. The A&P receipt in her beach bag gave us clues. I am so grateful she ate her beloved Santa Rosa plums on that last day.

When we write, we can see our story, thoughts and emotions outside of ourselves. I believe that moving it from the inside to the page helps us become our own story witness. This offers us distance, a new view and perspective. For Didion, writing was both an act of self-preservation and self-understanding. I see this in my Write to Heal clients.

Brain imagine studies found that writing about your emotions calms the amygdala, the part of the brain that is the brain’s threat detector. Is is a small, almond shaped structure deep in your brain that acts as your emotional processing center, particularly for fear and threat. The amygdala receives sensory information and evaluates whether something is threatening, rewarding or emotionally significant.

The book is Didion’s attention to understand her own mind in the immediate aftermath of loss. The “magical thinking” of the title refers to her irrational belief that if she did certain things correctly she could reverse what happened. So many of us can get lost in the “shoulds” this way. Every person that has ever read the book I talk to, shares their reflection of “the shoes.” She could not give away his shoes because he would need them when he returned.

When we move the story we are telling ourselves about our loved ones and our loss from the inside out, we are also telling this part of our brain that the magical thinking has moved to the acceptance of reality. Not accepting that this will ever be right, but that it is in fact real. They are not walking through the door. The threat of another bad thing happening, can quiet.

I am not saying the medicine is becoming a memoirist. But I know that trying on writing as a grief tending tool has proven to help hundreds I sit with in their experience. Many of my grievers in groups and on retreat are often hesitant to pick up the pen. Their inner critic shows up and scoffs. Perfectionism ensues. Or they have a bad taste because they have been given an assignment to write a letter to their dead loved one and became lost in overwhelm. I actually love this invitation, but it can be offered too early, or when you don’t feel ready to imagine this is your new normal.

Gentle invitations to the page can help us exercise this beautiful and effective practice. Sometimes it helps us find words to what is too hard to speak. Maybe it unveils thoughts that are deeply embedded in the subconscious. This can be found in a four minute sprint across the page…ditching grammar and punctuation and trading it for curiosity. Write like nobody is reading!

It never has to be shared, or even read. Lists and free association can create an easy container for a practice. This is my favorite part of my Grief Camp sessions. Seeing “campers” become writers. The next one takes place in March if you have an itch to try it in person with me.

If you geek out on the science of why - here is what we know.

+When you write about something painful, you are externalizing it. Out of the head and onto the page. This creates mental distance — a moat! It reduces the heavy load of holding on. It’s “over there”.

+Writing lights up so many brain regions and memory retrieval. This can help us make sense of even the most difficult experiences.

+We can move from overwhelm to better understanding. Observing our thoughts before we take action.

+Even a short timed automatic write, or list helps organize thoughts, regain control and focus.

+Writing by hand can slow us down allowing more time for processing and meaning making.

+Let it be messy. Ignore grammar, spelling and even sentences. A shitty first draft (even the only draft!) allows us to just to adapt and regulate.

You don’t need a fancy journal to journey this way. Although I do love having a dedicated place to put these thoughts. A safe container. A favorite pen. The New York Times just featured one of my favorites. But I am equally a fan of the old school composition book.

One of the prompts or invitations I offered in our recent group was called “Hello Again”. Every time there was something in the day that you longed to share with a loved one, you can just jot it down. Almost like a phone memo, call or text. Instead of feeling that frustration, sadness or block - see what it feels like to bring them into the magic and minutiae of the day. This helps us to create a continuing bond with our person.

“Hey Mom, it’s candy heart season. Our favorite. I have already knocked back a bag and it is not even February. I put them in a pink bowl on my desk. I sent a pic of one to Quinny that said Love Bug. You would not believe her cooking. Imagine my kid cooking? Miss you”.

Give it a try and tell me what you think. And if you have not yet read either of the memoirs shared - add them to your TBR pile. Hope to write with you soon.