Art and Healing: writing as a tool for coping

My healing story begins not with my own healing but with seeking solutions for my companion’s depression. Michael’s periods of depression seemed endless as he responded negatively to every circumstance, whether it was a sunny day of good food, friends, and things to do or a gloomy day of disappointment and things gone wrong. Sometimes he was unable to get out of bed for days at a time. I insisted that he see a doctor. With a diagnosis of bi-polar disorder, the puzzle pieces fell into place. Unfortunately, he hated the way the pharmaceuticals made him feel. 

We lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, a Mecca for alternative healing, and I began to search for alternatives to prescription drugs. He was willing to try anything, from talk therapy and art therapy to drama class, from acupuncture to homeopathic medicine, from writing class to drumming circles, from anti-depressants to a Mexican limpía, from volunteering at a senior center to Recovery, Inc support group, from Chi Jong to hiking. 

I eventually came to understand that one has to want healing, sometimes with all of one’s strength and focus. It isn’t how much you do or what you do, but the drive to be well has to supersede and overcome the habitual patterns of being sick. A new identity must be created and cultivated, painstakingly and continuously.

Earthwalks for Health was part of my search for ways to heal. Earthwalks connected us to indigenous artists and local sages for a week-end of learning about their traditional spirituality and healing practices. This is how I met Joan Logghe, beloved Santa Fe poet.

It was energizing to hear common themes go around the circle...

Joan was the founder of Write Action, a writing support group for people who were HIV positive. As time went on, they either died or became so well, they no longer had the time or inclination to attend, so she opened it up to anyone with a physical or mental challenge. I was writing poetry with another group at the time and encouraged Michael to attend Joan’s group. He found it satisfying to pour out his brutally honest thoughts on paper and not be judged. One week, he couldn’t attend because he was going out of town so I suggested that I could go and “keep his seat warm.” I loved it and we continued attending together weekly. We both felt we had a home where we were supported and accepted. It was energizing to hear common themes go around the circle and to be reassured that coping with Michael’s moods was not isolating us. 

Joan used the same basic writing instruction that so many writing instructors and writing groups would come to rely on: spontaneous timed writing. Pick a time, put pen to the paper and keep it moving, not stopping to consider grammar or sentence structure of even if it makes sense. Natalie also writes in Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within, “go for the jugular. If something comes up in your writing that is scary or naked, dive right into it. It probably has lots of energy.”

Joan used poems as prompts. In this way, we entered the rhythm of language and I appreciated the exposure to poets unfamiliar to me. She was compassionate and humorous, non-critical and non-judgmental, and was willing to share her own beautiful honest and vulnerable writing, even if it felt “uncooked.” 

As time went on, Michael became more and more mentally unstable. He would rearrange furniture at 2 am; had a serious car accident; started to have panic attacks and bouts of rage for no reason; and either would not answer the phone or talk compulsively for hours. I became more of a care-giver than a companion, lover or mate. I kept the house, buying groceries, cooking and cleaning, but I also opened the mail that he would leave unattended, planned our trips out of town, stayed connected with friends, made sure he kept his appointments, and listened to him talk about himself, his problems, his painful childhood, his lack of inner resources to find work or stay at a job, his lack of self-confidence and motivation, for hours and hours. He no longer wanted to be here, he told me.

“Please let me go, give me permission,” he begged. “I can’t believe I am still alive.” 

I was exhausted, frustrated and overwhelmed, working part time at a retail shop, trying to develop my writing skills, stay connected to my almost-adult sons and my friends, and pursue my own interests. And I also had emotional wounds to heal. Once I recognized that I needed to create boundaries, I reached out and was able to receive counseling at Southwest College.

Michael’s mental state continued to deteriorate and he became more and more determined to end his suffering. We discussed suicide often and my attempts to talk him out of it ranged from “we don’t know what’s on the other side” to “What about your sons?” When he confessed that he has kept a gun secretly hidden for two years, I was frightened. Events spiraled until I moved to our friend’s rental and then house-sat for her while she was out of town. Michael and I continued to see each other but I would ask him to leave so I could work. Eventually he planned what he had been obsessing about for years and I came home one evening to the news that he had killed himself.

To be able to pour out my grieving heart onto the page

                                                          was cathartic.

After days of weeping and memorials and his family’s recriminations and time to reflect, I returned to the writing group. A burst of creative energy was released because I was no longer care-giving. To be able to pour out my grieving heart onto the page was cathartic. I felt both liberated and abandoned by Michael’s death. He was no longer holding me back but I also no longer had his adventurous spirit, his companionship, his affection and playfulness when he wasn’t depressed. I was angry at myself,  that I had put up with his abuse, recalling those times when he was critical or demanding of me and other times  when he risked our safety while driving or traveling. A cauldron of boiling emotions poured out onto the page. To know that others were willing to be on the journey, accompanying me through the muck, was life-saving.