Writing as Therapy

"Here's what I want you to do this week I want you to write, keep a journal of your daily journey and/or struggles. Better yet, write a letter to those that have harmed you - lay it all out, but do not mail it. We can discuss here. Can you do that?" Carolyn, my therapist, awaiting my reply.

"You mean like a diary?" This felt like a less-than-manly concept, I knew my brothers would ridicule it if they found out.

"Well, we like to say journaling, but it is the same concept. Just keep a record and bring it with you to discuss, okay?"

"Sure, I can give it a try."

The day's session ran on a loop in my mind as I headed home. It felt good to actually tell somebody the truth and not be judged and actually take my side. Then again, were they not paid to take my side? I berated myself for once again failing to trust somebody.

I found an old notebook  in my desk and immediately tackled the day, writing details on the daily session and the rest of the day. This continued for a few days with some sense of monotony as there was nothing interesting, and then I remembered the instruction to write a letter to those that had harmed me or at least that is how I viewed it (they would strongly disagree if asked). 

I sat back in my chair and stared out the window. A picture of mom standing with me and mamaw caught my eye. I felt the emotions percolate, I turned to a blank page and addressed the letter to mom. I write Dear Mom, but strongly considered To Whom it may concern. I laid it all out, the lack of support, the parentification (I did not use the word but more laid out what happened) at such a young age followed by the overwhelming pressure to always take care of her and everything. 

Carolyn was right, it felt so good to get it out onto paper. I reread my composition and read it again, making a few corrections. The shame and anger stirred deep within me. For a moment, I doubted it, doubted all of it, but then again a board certified professional backed me up - she had actually provided the ammunition, the words for what had happened. I felt my head shaking up and down, agreeing and validating my prose. I reached for an envelope, then a stamp and prepared the time bomb. 

The letter stared at me the rest of the day as I moved around the house. Finally, I grabbed it on my way out to run errands. I drove straight to the post office, dropped it in the familiar blue box outside and returned to my to-do list.

"You did what?" Carloyn was incredulous when I relayed my handiwork during my next weekly session.

"I figured it was better to get it out there, let her know how I truly feel." I put up a good front, but the time bomb I had mailed scared me plus there had been no word from my mother, so it still had not arrived.

"Why did you think it so necessary to mail it? I specifically told you to not do that, the exercise itself is therapeutic." She sat back with arms crossed.

"I don't know, well I do know, I became more and more angry as I wrote it. Besides, it is all the truth."

"The truth according to you."

"Wait, what? We have discussed this, like almost six months now, you agree with me, you told me what it was." I suddenly felt like I had been setup.

"Yes, we have done a lot of work and I do believe and agree with you. It would be healthier to have a discussion with her, bring her in here in a safe space to hear her side, discuss and work through issues."

"Now you tell me this is the plan?" 

"These things take time, there is no express route."

"I think mailing that latter may be one." I laugh and shake my head.

"This is funny? Do you think she will laugh?"

"I never said that, but it is funny in a harsh way so we'll just see how it goes."

In the end, the letter never reached my mother. This was fifteen years ago, so I finally asked her directly a couple years ago and she received nothing. Did I address it wrong? Lost in the mail? I will never know, but it is worth noting that I never discussed any of the issues directly with mom - further therapy decided it was not the best idea.