serious, and she could choose topics heavy or light. She finished most of the assignments, but when it came time for the final project, in which writers combined and synthesized their various writings into a single piece, she did not turn anything in. I had to assign her a grade of “Incomplete.”
What most concerned me was that her calm, rational observations about why she could not complete this project caused me to question the premise of my course. Would there be future students who simply have nothing to say about any kind of trauma or issue, regardless of its degree of severity? Claire had struck me as an honest, forthright person, so maybe others felt the same way but said nothing? I’d long known that writing about trauma is not for everyone, nor should it be. But this didn’t stop me from worrying that this course—which the other twenty-two students seemed to find valuable—could not happen again. A few months after the class ended, Claire sent me this email.
Hello Dr. Fox,
I know my name is probably the last thing you wanted to see in your inbox. I want to talk to you about my paper. It’s finished, and I was wondering if I could still turn it in. To be honest, my real concern is about the content of the paper. Dr. Fox, I let it out. I let it all out. What you are going to read is the bare bones . . . plain Claire with nothing extra. I debated for a long time if I were going to write about what my logic was telling me or what my soul was propelling me to write about. I know this sounds corny and clichéd, but it’s the truth. I initially told myself that I was going to write about the relationship between my brother and my mom and the fistfight they had when I was eight. It just wasn’t coming out, because I had another subject pressing on my mind. It has been a subject that I wanted to talk about for years, but have been scared of the repercussions. Dr. Fox, I talk about repeatedly being molested . . . by my brother. Just last year, I would not have even thought about writing that down, but the floodgates have been opened and I can’t shut them. This has been both easy and difficult for me to write. It was easy because there was so much that I wanted to say. (Personal Communication 2003)
Claire’s case solidified three important lessons for me. First, it ingrained in me that writing about trauma is not for everyone. Second, it’s not for everyone at certain times. We can suggest and nudge people to write about trauma, but we cannot force them. (I didn’t try to persuade Claire to do anything she did not want to do, and grades were off the table, but the fact remains that she was enrolled in a college graduate course.) Finally, this situation underscored the fact that writing about trauma does work, much of the time, and for good reason: The positive effects that writing has on wellness have been documented through qualitative and quantitative research studies, conducted over time, with different populations and rigorous methods.
In “Writing as Physical and Emotional Healing: Findings from Clinical Research,” Jessica Singer and George Singer (2008) provide a comprehensive review of clinical research on the positive effects of writing on a variety of maladies. The authors review how writers, by using expressive language and self-disclosure, can mediate the adverse effects of physical traumas, including the Epstein-Barr Virus, blood pressure, cancer, chronic pelvic pain, HIV, and physical recovery from surgery. Stephen Lepore and Joshua Smyth (2002) and other researchers have concluded that expressive writing is linked to a general improvement of our immune systems. More specifically, James Pennebaker (1990, 8) summarizes the physiological benefits of expressive writing, which include
better lung function among asthma patients and lower pain and disease severity among arthritis sufferers (Smyth et al. 1999), higher white blood cell counts among AIDS patients (Petrie, Booth, and Pennebaker 1998), and less sleep disruption among patients with metastatic breast cancer. (De Moor et al. 2002)
Singer and Singer (2008) also evaluate research results of writing’s positive effects on psychological issues, such as depression, the loss of jobs, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and intimate-partner violence (IPV). Lepore and Smyth (2002) and other researchers have concluded that expressive writing is linked to a general improvement of our immune system. Here, too, Pennebaker (2004) offers a more specific account of expressive writing’s psychological effects, as one of experiencing
immediate feelings of sadness but long-term effects of happiness; lower levels of depressive symptoms and general anxiety; improved performance in school; enhanced ability to deal with one’s social life; reduced feelings of anger; increased employability or success in job interviews; and increased feelings of connection with others, [or] social integration (8–11).
Expressive writing therapies are used in major medical organizations, such as Duke University, North Carolina; the City of Hope Cancer Center and The John Wayne Cancer Institute, California; and Piedmont Hospital, Georgia. Writing is used in the treatment of physically and psychologically abused women, AIDS/HIV patients, soldiers experiencing Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and suicidal people (Anderson and MacCurdy 2000).
In current and clinical contexts, there’s little doubt that composing through trauma positively affects our physical and emotional health. While these “new scientific facts” provide assurances to many people, we shouldn’t be surprised at how writing has forever helped us. For eons, writing has breathed life into human culture. Writing systems using graphic symbols to represent the sounds of a language seem to have evolved independently in Mesoamerica (650 BCE), China (1250 BCE), and Mesopotamia (3200 BCE) (Schmandt-Besserat 2006). Writing is the basis of government, law, religion, economy, science, art, and technology. In huge and grand fashion, writing has been key to the development and survival of the human race.
We’ve always regarded the values of writing as self-evident. After all, through the mists of time, we had only to look around at the rich, written products surrounding us—from the magnificent library in ancient Alexandria, to the timeless beauty of Shakespeare’s King Lear, to the strength of a Milton sonnet, to the brilliance of Mark Twain, to the insights of Joan Didion. We know the inestimable value of writing because it has forever sustained us, guided us, and moved us forward.
Our Storied Past
Composing through trauma works because it’s been effectively practiced throughout human history, including by some impressive minds. Thomas Jefferson, for example, penned a long dialogue, “My Head and My Heart,” in which his two internal forces debated with each other over his deep affection (if not love) for Maria Cosway, a young married woman he had met in Paris when he served as the US Minister to France in 1786 (Brodie 1974). The dialogue comprised the bulk of Jefferson’s long letter, beginning with his sadness at seeing Cosway leave France for her home in England.
I was at home. Seated by my fireside, solitary & sad, the following dialogue took place between my Head & my Heart:
Head. Well, friend, you seem to be in a pretty trim.
Heart. I am indeed the most wretched of all earthly beings. Overwhelmed with grief, every fibre of my frame distended beyond its natural powers to bear, I would willingly meet whatever catastrophe should leave me no more to feel or to fear.
Head. These are the eternal consequences of your warmth & precipitation. This is one of the scrapes into which you are ever leading us. You confess your follies indeed; but still you hug & cherish them; & no reformation can be hoped, where there is no repentance.
Heart. Oh, my friend! This is no moment to upbraid my foibles. I am rent into fragments by the force of my grief! If you have any balm, pour it into my wounds; if none, do not harrow them by new torments. Spare me in this awful moment! (493–94)
While the most common form of writing through trauma is direct, expressive language (discussed later in this chapter), all forms of writing can be therapeutic: from poetry to drama, from letters to obituaries, from lists to PowerPoint presentations. An imagined dialogue is a more creative form that emphasizes interaction and thinking, as one voice responds to another, allowing ideas to evolve and become more comprehensible.
