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Often, when writing about painful or traumatic events, I find myself weeping. But, after a while, I feel better.  Is there a science behind this?  Yes, actually, there is.

I found a post by the American Psychological Association that claims writing about trauma may reduce your stress, boost your mood, and your immunity.  So, if you are writing about some painful topics, take heart, and know that even if it doesn’t feel good at the moment, this may be better than therapy.

Here’s a link to the APA article:

http://www.apa.org/research/action/writing.aspx

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There was a moment when I was reading last night when I felt inextricably linked to the author.  These are moments I live for: that moment during reading when you know for sure it is the author coming through, and not a fictional voice.

I was reading an essay titled “The View from Mrs. Thompson’s” in David Foster Wallace’s collection of essays Consider the Lobster.  Though he skirts around it at first, the essay is about 9/11 and the reaction of his particular town at the time, Bloomington Indiana.  The event is referred to as the Horror, maybe in an attempt to give it an alternate or different meaning.

As DFW has no TV to watch the Horror, as soon as he hears what’s going on via radio, he jumps straight from the shower and heads to a fellow churchgoer’s home to watch. (I never thought of him as a church-going person, another revelation from this essay.)  But before this, before Tuesday, we learn what happened on Wednesday, the dreadful day after.

Wednesday was the day of the flags; American flags everywhere, planted in lawns “as if they’d somehow all just sprouted overnight.”   Showing your flag was somehow supportive not having a flag was, well,  bad.  DFW doesn’t have a flag and goes off in search of one, ending up in a convenience market, having a small breakdown.

DFW’s struggle with depression is well known at this point, though I’m not sure how well known it was at this time.  But there’s this moment in the essay, this one striking moment, when he is completely vulnerable, in a public place, in front of others:

“All those dead people, and I’m sent to the edge by a plastic flag.” 

His panic worsens as others ask if he is alright, and he ends up in the store’s storage area trying to calm himself.

This is so dead-on what it’s like to have depression, to feel panic, to be overwhelmed by something so small and so damn inconsequential.  It’s completely maddening.  And to be in public during an episode is the worst.

This single moment was a gut-punch to me.  I felt simultaneously tender towards the author, and as if I were looking in a mirror.  It feels so stupid to get worked up over something that seems so small, and yet… This is what emotional problems look like.  This is what they are.  Thousands of these kinds of moments make up what we know as depression.

The first book I picked up this year is Green Girl, by Kate Zambreno.  This has never happened to me before, but as I read it, it began to seem very familiar to me.  Familiar in the style, mostly, not as much in story.  And then it hit me:  this novel reminds me strongly of my own non-fiction work.

The protagonist of Green Girl, Ruth, is a lost soul.  She is having an identity crisis, sparked by a break-up and a death.  It’s the intensity of this crisis, the harsh internal gaze, the inability to keep up even the most basic of hygienic rituals, the masking of the internal turmoil, that grabbed me.  Maybe this looks so familiar because I know that state so intimately myself:  this is depression at it’s worst.  You get so steeped in it, you can’t see anything else.

Another similarity that struck me:  the use of repetition.  This is a device I use often in my own writing and appreciate when it’s done well.  Here, I think use of repetition serves the novel and the character very well.  Repetition can show how mired a person can become, how stuck in destructive thoughts and habits.  Thoughts can become symbols of illness, foggy, unclear, the brain trying to work out the crisis.  Rumination is said to be the brain’s way of problem solving, trying to work things out.

We see Ruth through her own foggy gaze, speaking about herself in the third person, evaluating herself through the gaze of her lost lover, who is still in the States.  Ruth has run away, literally, from her problems, run to the gray streets of London.  We don’t know much about Ruth, really, aside from her status as ‘green girl’ and her habit of making bad choices.  She seems almost apathetic about her life, another sign of her depressive crisis.  She is ‘dead inside’ or makes the appearance of it, pretends that she is dead, numb.

Then, a life-saving transformation:  a haircut.  It seems trite, trivial, but if you are at the bottom of a crisis, even a simple act such as cutting off all of your hair and changing at least your outward appearance can be a life-saver.  This is temporary, though, and the effects of it wear thin, soon.

There is a sense that Ruth needs ‘saving,’ that all of the green girls need saving.  Ruth is impressionable, a trait which shows strongly in the end.   And as much as I usually hate the endings of novels (this one being no exception), I had to wonder in the end what did I expect to happen to Ruth?  What other ending could there be?

The crisis of identity is a familiar theme, but I like the way Zambreno really lets her character wallow in it, because that’s really the only way to get through it.

It’s like 95 degrees out today, so I’m taking advantage of that by staying inside and writing.

My first short story for my 9 year old nephew was a hit; I’m told he’s working on sketches now. The deal was that I’d write the text and he would do the illustrations. So while he works on that, I’m working on the next story for him to illustrate.

This could turn into a fun little series!

Monday night; errands, traffic.  On the radio Pearl Jam is singing “Alive.”

Can you only measure your life’s worth if you come close to losing it?

Am I retracing my steps or just walking the same paths over & over because I am forced by habit?

All I can think to do is put words to paper.

Life seems to push us all forward, whether we want it to or not.  Whether I want to be pushed or not, I can feel time pushing me.  Funny how fickle time can seem.  Sometimes it works in your favor; sometimes, it does not.

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