Taking Care When Writing About Trauma
When I published my memoir, a lot of people asked, “Was it cathartic?”
The short answer is yes. Yes, it was cathartic to write 100,000+ words about something horrible that happened to me. Yes, it felt good to process my jumbled thoughts and memories and put them into a concise order that made sense. Yes, it feels empowering every time I get a royalty cheque in the mail.
And the longer answer is: it hurt like hell to write my story.
There were times when I was writing my memoir when it literally felt like my fingertips were on fire. I would feverishly write 5000+ words a day and then when I got to a really sticky spot, I would stop, and then sometimes not write for months. When I see my book in a bookstore or on someone’s shelf, there is a part of my that feels immense pride, and there is also always a little bit of shock to see that it actually happened, based on how many times I thought about giving up.
Talking about our traumas with a trusted friend or a licensed therapist is one thing. Processing through difficult memories and triggering emotions in healthy ways is one of the best gifts we can give to ourselves. Writing about it, however, makes it permanent. When my trauma leaves my lips in a therapy session, it is as if I can almost see the words, floating on the breeze like a leaf falling from a tree. And then they land somewhere or stick to someone’s shoe, and they move on. They are no longer in my orbit. But when I write them down, they are encased in cement. Even if those words never see the light of day, I know they are there and that can be really challenging for someone who is already processing trauma.
Publishing those words, or sharing them in any way, is a whole other ballgame. When I was putting the final touches on my book, I made a list of all the fears I had. Right at the top was the same fear that any artist has when they make something and put it out into the world: What if no one reads this?
And immediately next to my greatest fear was my next biggest fear: What if everyone reads this?
When my book was finally published, I had worked through some of those fears… but not before I did some work around what it means to write about out trauma. Here are a few of the suggestions I have for you if you decide to write about your own trauma:
Set an intention. Why are you choosing to write about this? Why now? Ask yourself these questions and better yet—write them down! I found it helpful to answer these questions in a quiet room with a chill playlist and a candle burning, but do whatever it is you need to do to ground yourself.
Ask for support. Before you sit to write about something traumatic, tell a friend what you’re about to do. Explain that you might have some heavy emotions soon and tell them how they can show up for you. My personal favourite: “I have a feeling today will be really hard. Can you text me at 8pm and check in on me?” or “I’m about to unlock some ugly details about myself, can you remind me of three things that make me great?” Might sound cheesy, but it worked for me!
Go easy on yourself and take breaks. Unless you are working on some crazy deadline from a publisher, chances are there is lots of time for this undertaking. Give yourself a lot of grace. I like to set timers anytime I write, and never sit for more than 50 minutes at a time. This isn’t easy when I’m in a flow, but from experience, I know now that giving myself a break every hour to stretch, get some fresh air or sun on my face, snuggle my dog or text a friend, is always worthwhile in the end for my own mental health.
In my book, I write, Putting my experiences down on paper and sharing it has been a cathartic experience but a sober one as well. I’m not innocent and I’m not guilty. I’m just here, baring it all. I kept coming back to my intention over and over and over during the writing process, and tried to honour myself when my body or heart asked me rest.
