Therapy or Addiction?

I realize that the last post was a blur of recent personal history. I also realize that I lied. Honesty has become a mantra of sorts during the last year. In the spirit of honesty, I don't want to start off on the wrong foot. I wrote that I started this blog at the end of my chronological list. That was not true.

During the heat of battle with my former Mormon self, I found writing to be the best therapy. I have mentioned this a few times in my complete account of the ordeal. The title of the book this "therapy" rendered is:

God © - A Soul Held Hostage

A weird little side note; I finished the first draft of my book about leaving Mormonism EXACTLY 5 years after returning home from a Mormon mission. I am by no means the world's first disillusioned return missionary. I just remember checking the date while printing out the completed manuscript and thinking, "Huh... September 16. That's ironic!"

I did churn out quite a few chapters that last week. Maybe my subconscious calender was telling me something. In Mexico, September 16 is Independence Day. Having served in Mexico, I thought it was fitting that I "declare my independence" from missionary life on my last day as a missionary. I think the celebration entailed a Whopper in the Dallas/Ft Worth airport. That was on September 16, 2003. Now, in 2008, September 16 found me as a lucky husband, proud father, aspiring writer and religiously unaffiliated. Not everyone will agree, but I feel like my older version is better in every way - with the exception of the 50 extra pounds, but their temporary stay has expired.

My tendency to veer from the topic at hand, however, has obviously not waned. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, therapeutic writing. I thought about the therapy of writing when I saw the picture I took upon starting this blog. I was writing on my iMac and tried out the camera. I hate having my picture taken and only took my own picture as a reminder.

I think it was early May and late at night when I created this blog. I wanted something I could use to easily pass my writing progress between work and home. Every post was saved but never published. I set the iMac camera to black and white because it seemed to fit my mood. I touched my recently filled 5x8 legal pad to my head and clicked the camera button. I carried those yellow pads with me everywhere those days. The pad was my vein, my pen the syringe, and the racing thoughts in my mind, my heroine. Passing the thoughts from my mind to the paper provided intense relief. The relief, as with all addictions, was always temporary.

The junky that I was, I would trash the vein until no new injection points could be found and I was forced to move on to the next vein. The night I started this blog, I remember being surrounded by filled pads of paper and realizing that to make any sense of them, I would need to start transcribing. Page by page, I recorded the thoughts digitally and started down the long road of organizing into chapters.

While I never intended to make this blog viewable, I found that it was impossible to abandon. And the picture, as tacky as it is, has served its purpose.

Despite the constant nagging of my wife and little sister, it took me a long time to board the Harry Potter train. I diligently took Jenny to the movies when they came out and bought the books for her as soon as they were released.

I finally listened to all of the books on my iPod. The first three felt like a chore. I had seen the movies and felt like the claims of "The books are so much better!" were exaggerated in this case. When I hit book four or five, I felt like Ms. Rowling had hit her stride and took off running. After finishing the last book, I was in awe of her; as a writer and a story teller. She deserves the billions her story brought in.

I mention Harry Potter because Ms. Rowling managed to draw out a perfect example of therapeutic writing - for me at least.

Dumbledore stands over his pensive and, with the aid of his wand, extracts a wispy white memory.

I don't remember the wording or passage, but I am fairly confident that the wise, gay wizard said something about using the pensive to organize and store his thoughts. (Avid Harry Potter fans: please excuse my probably erred interpretation.)

Replace "pensive" with yellow legal pad, "wand" with ballpoint, and "wispy white memory" with rampaging loose ball-bearing of thought - it fits perfectly. I don't know what it was about it, but the idea of physically pulling something out of your head and storing it somewhere else struck home for me.

During those early months of serious contemplation about my place as a Mormon, my thoughts turned from normally courteous motorists into violent rioters. Without some form of release, my brain was soon going to resemble Los Angeles, 1992.

I started putting pen to paper and couldn't stop. As soon as I was satisfied with my description of a particular thought, it calmed and retreated to sit quietly in the corner. The relief was such that before long, I had piled up about 4 inches of longhand pages.

Henry David Thoreau, an incredible human being, wrote:

"I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I , on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life..."

Writing that "sincere account" of my life did more good than thousands of dollars of counseling could have. It felt great to leave it all on the page and move on with this new chapter of my life. If writing has a similar effect for you, I highly recommend taking Thoreau up on his assignment.

On the other hand, if you are new to writing (as am I), you might find your momentum only to have it stripped away from you. That is an unpleasant sensation. I wrote the following during an especially difficult chapter:

It has been quite a ride. The sleepless nights have taken their toll on me physically and emotionally. My eyes feel so gritty. I fear that before long, blinking will begin to produce a sound similar to a child devouring a bag of potato chips. I became self conscious that in the near future, obese, salty-snack-loving individuals in my vicinity would have their palates moistened and hopes raised, only to be disappointed.

Though I can tell that my mind has been a little frayed with over use, he still troops along at a brisk pace, intent on reaching the finish line.

I had an especially difficult time finding a way to relate the inner turmoil that shredded at every inch of me. In the transitional hours between yesterday and today, I struggled to draw a satisfactory analogy.

Normally, the moment I touch pen to paper the words seem to flow from me like bees from a disrupted hive. My asinine task of converting thoughts into words often feels like standing in front of the hive with a dust-buster; gathering as many bees as possible.

Lately, the hive has appeared to rupture in an explosion of fleeing drones. I am left flailing wildly like a madman. Collecting as many as possible while at the same time trying to identify which bees might be more "valuable" than others.

More often than not, I am drawn away from the hive, chasing a small cluster of bees through the trees - forced to abandon the majority in the pursuit of few.

But last night was a first. I guess the bees must have been in the middle of a karaoke jam or watching the season finale of "American Idol." Completing one page last night was like peering into the hive, trying desperately to coax the bees out. I tried pleading. I beat relentlessly on the walls of the hive like an outraged buffoon. I even reduced myself to petty insults - taking jabs at the bees' architectural design style and selection of bland beige coloring; all with little success.

So, what is the lesson to be learned here? Is it that writing can be unpredictable and inspiration finicky? No. The lesson here is that using an analogy to describe another analogy is an idiotic idea! Two bad analogies don't make ANYTHING right.

I am not exactly sure why I decided to include that. Oh well, it was fun to track down and read. I don't know how people manage to fill entire books about the craft of writing. In my opinion, writing about writing is a lot like singing about a song.

Anyway, if you have ever wanted to tackle the project of writing a book, I say go for it. But, be patient, Muses are flaky as hell.