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Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Hi all,

I have found throughout the course of my life that writing has been a constant companion to me. It has provided me with a way to vent my frustrations, to grapple with the eternal verities of life that confound and delight me, to explore ideas and concepts, and to try to put into words the often chaotic moods and thoughts that result from having a mind that's a little bit odd...

I have written lots of poems, especially in the last 3 or 4 years, dealing with depression and bipolar. They help me to process and understand some of the things that are happening in this twisted little noodle of mine. As such, writing has become one of my main forms of therapy.

One of the best things that I find about writing is that it can act as a kind of mood diary. I can read things that I had previously written, and it will quite often map out where I was at during the time of writing. The words I spread across the page act as signposts of my progress, too. As my self knowledge increases and my life journey progresses, I find that it affects how I write and what I write...

Often, we do not see the thousands of tiny little changes to our selves that our life experiences cause over the years. It can be very helpful to re-read old writings, in order to see how far we have come, what we have improved, where we have fallen back into old harmful habits, and the things that we have learned.

The language that we use in our writings and in our thoughts and in our speech is very important. It can reveal a lot about our selves, our states of mind, and our moods...

That language, it can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. I believe that we attract certain kinds of people around us, and create (or at least influence) life situations based on our choice of language. It helps define who we are as a person.

Negative thinking, self-deprecation, self-hatred, these sorts of dangerous life traps are often revealed in our choice of words. So too are the positive things. It all starts with a glass. How we describe the glass and the quantity and quality of its contents, that's where language comes into it, and it can shape our very lives and the lives of those around us.

Writing... it is my solace and my main tool of self-analysis. It is my favourite form of therapy...

2932 replies

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In response to: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Beautifully written @BlueBay - I feel your pain. I have been to some of dark depression's places. I would not wish it on anyone, least of all a lovely person like you @BlueBay

Sending you all the hugs in the world... 🙂

In response to: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Re: ... now ..Re: Poem - The Glass Demon

Dear All,

@Appleblossom @theaveragejoe @GonePirate @Silenus @BlueBay

Hi all great post.

I asked @Appleblossom to help me write a paper in feminism for little ol' us ...living in the community and what that means but that fell by the wayside when .....life caught up with me and ma husband and son.

So, I'm upping my work a very little to pay for seeing my Psychotherapist on 31 May, I want to write but probably don't want to do the study thing.

You write you didnt have a mouth @Appleblossom ? Does everyone know of your lonely life before when you were struggling with small children and family @Appleblossom.

In Berlin on channel 24, an amazing site of a ..flash mob in Berlin for an orchestra and 1000 people turned up from 5 years old to 85 years old to play in an orchestra with a conductor.

What is your music I need to search old messages.....@Appleblossom I'm trying to get there to listen to it.

In response to: Re: ... now ..Re: Poem - The Glass Demon

Poem - Part Of My Life Story In A Poem

True story...


Part Of My Life Story In A Poem

I'm gonna be 45 soonish...

My marriage died nearly 5 years ago.
I died with it.

My world fell apart.

I was in a 2 year major depression,
Which was much of the reason the marriage ended;
I couldn't fake getting excited about having kids any more.

I never wanted kids.

I wanted a life partner though.
A soul mate.

I got one.
We were together for 12 years, married for 10...

My biggest mistake
Was that I thought I would be able to convince myself to have kids.

But my wife's biological clock
Was starting to tick louder in our ears...

Tick... tock... tick... tock...

And still I struggled with this lacking urge to have kids.
I couldn't bring myself to do it...

I was depressed.

Had been for ages.
A combination of work stress, overwork, impotence...
Totally undiagnosed bipolar...

Ignorant of my repeating life pattern -

2 year long hypomanias as a highly functional electrical engineer and "life of the party" nutbag;
Work hard;
Earn good money...

Then there was the flip side -

Building anxieties.
Can't face talking on the phone.
Miss a day of work.
Feel totally crap, but can't pick up the phone and call in sick.
Feel guilty as hell.
Feel worse.
Then the next day, can't call.
Feel even worse and more guilty and worthless.
Miss another day.
Can't pick up phone when it rings (probably from work).

A knock on my front door the next day.

"Silenus? Silenus? Are you there?
It's (Si's boss).
Listen, we really need you at work.
Are you okay?
Are you there?"

Hide your head
Under the blanket
In your bed
In the darkened bedroom.
Leaden limbs.
Unable to get up.
Numb.
Uncaring.
Then a vague sense of relief when your boss finally goes away.
Stay hidden
Under the blanket
In your bed
In the darkened bedroom.

Some time later...
(Who knows how long?
Time doesn't exist in depression...)
Listen detachedly to a loud voice announcing itself as the police,
blah blah,
Something about safety check or something,
blah blah,
Something about breaking the door down,
blah.
Then the voice stops.

A loud noise that sounds like a couple of large coppers breaking a front door down.
Quiet again.

Cops pull blanket off my unmoving body.
I manage just enough energy to pretend to be startled, maybe.
Who knows?

More blah blah, blah blah, blah...

Be depressed for anywhere from 6 months to 2 years...

Then...

2 year long hypomanias as a highly functional electrical engineer and "life of the party" nutbag;
Work hard;
Earn good money...

Repeat until wiser...

In response to: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Financial strain.

Money money where are you
I wish I had some too
I hate when there's not enough
To buy the bread and other stuff

It hurts me so much
To live in such a rush
I can't deal with all of this
I hate this life it's not so bliss

I am worrying so much
About money money money
Isn't that Abba's song
I need help

Maybe it's time to run and hide
How do I explain
Or maybe I need to just go

My thoughts are everywhere
But you probably don't care
Oh well I need to do something
I can't think

I think I need help

In response to: Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

pointless...

what is the point of living

when living has become a chore

cant see any way out

cant see anything anymore

whats the point in breathing

when breathing makes me live

ive nothing left to rest upon

and nothing else to give

whats the point in thinking

when thinking causes pain

thoughts that make me fearful so

and drive me F***ING insane

In response to: pointless...

Re: pointless...

@PeppiPatty I would still write a paper on feminism with you if the Sane people would arrange for us to meet sometime.

At the moment (this week) I am playing Bach on the piano, Telemann on the recorder, accompanying son with Elgar and Rach, teaching allsorts, danced to Neil Diamond and Creedence Clearwater Revival etc, sang other Elgar and a mass by Saint Seans. Next week is yet to come.

In response to: Re: pointless...

LIFEMARE...

finite are the sands of time

an hourglass once whole

slipping through these hands of mine

ripping apart my soul

each day runs into the next

or drags on from the last

time is ever running out

the end approaching fast

cant think straight

can barely speak

suffering so

the outlooks bleak

why is it so difficult

cant you even tell

why am i on my own in this

i walk alone in hell

wake me from this slumber

wake me from this sleep

wake me from this lifemare

or am i in too deep?

its been days now

and i havnt moved a bit

feel like im losing my mind

like its ripped apart and split

one half just berates me

with negetivity

the other half struggles to fight

its longing to be free

pain i am accustom to

and depression is an old friend

but this total lack of everything

will surely be my end

usually id wrap it up

end on a happy note

but not this time it is too much

i sware i cannot cope

ive squandered all my money

ive drunk all the booze

ive done all that i can

and still i am confused

lost in a haze of thoughts and feeling

walking a path with no destination

marching ever forward towards demise

without hesitation

i want the world to end

to see the last of me

ive said it before and ill say it again

im longing to be free

finite are the sands of time

an hourglass once whole

slipping through these hands of mine

ripping apart my soul

In response to: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Sending hugs @GonePirate - hang in there.

I love that you turn pain into art. Powerful poem.

I would wish for your pain to sod off though, and leave you to your art.

More hugs...

In response to: Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Poem - There's A Monster About

I've got demons and monsters lurking within. I believe that we all do. It's peeps like us, those with mental health issues, that recognise our demons, and grapple with them. To me, we are the sane ones, and the "normal" people who are either ignorant or uncaring of their demons are the crazy ones...

This poem was an attempt to describe the process of self-improvement that I am undergoing. This was written a bit under 2 years ago. I was going through my own personal hell. It was a very tough time, coming up to the first of mum's birthdays after she passed away. Lotta demons, clawing away at me...

There’s A Monster About

Run you fools, there’s a monster about,
Lining up for another bout;
Claws and teeth are just the beginning,
And there’s little hope of finally winning;
On and on, this battle rages,
I shake my fists and rattle the cages;
And after all the fuss and bother,
I see off the monster and face another…

In response to: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

Poem - Crash Rash

Written on the same day as the poem Penmanship, this poem really shows what a dark place I was in at the time. Sometimes I think about suicide. Unlike what most people possibly believe about suicidal ideation, there's no high drama or big emotions or anything like that. Just a calmness, as if it so totally doesn't matter whether you live or die...

I try to do more good than bad in this life. I am haunted by the people I have hurt either deliberately or inadvertently. I am haunted by all the bad things I did, the ignorant things...

Crash Rash

Sometimes I wish my plane would crash,
But that sounds really rather rash;
All these lives lost in the fall,
When all I crave is my curtain call.

Lost and lonely and afraid,
And at the edges very frayed;
This flag I fly is seldom unfurled,
This foetal position is often curled.

I think perhaps I’d like to live,
I kind of believe I’ve more to give;
I hope I’ve done more good than bad
But self-doubt keeps me deeply sad.

When I w.e.i.g.h up the bad and the good,
The scales lean bad on all I could;
I judge myself harder than all,
The architect of my inevitable fall.

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