Write a Letter Back

I’m a big advocate of journaling. 

It's the only antidote I've discovered for the ‘ruminating speeches’ that tend to take over my thoughts during periods of heightened emotional brain activity.

Basically, these ruminating speeches are what I would hypothetically say to the person who is currently the subject of my chaotic thoughts if they were in the room. I have a habit of repeating these monologues in my head, constantly refining, adding, and adjusting as needed.

It’s not helpful; it’s just obsessive. 

Journaling always helped. Putting pen to paper allowed me to organize and synthesize my thoughts in such a way that when I eventually did have the conversation, my distress was turned lower and my arguments became largely coherent. 

But what about when you are no longer talking to the person in question? What about when the carefully-crafted thoughts have no place to go? 

A couple months ago, that’s the situation I found myself in. I wanted to share my discoveries and feelings with someone who was on my mind, but I couldn’t. 

The result was that journaling wasn’t a 100% satisfactory outlet. I felt like I was bursting at the seams, desperate to reach out and share my thoughts. It was painful to hold it all in, and I began to worry I wouldn’t be able to go another day without caving in and giving him a call. 

Thankfully, around the same time, I was reading Marianne Williamson’s A Return to Love (a life-changing book I’ve referenced several times). In the book, Williamson talks about a grief workshop she conducted in which she asked participants to write a letter to their deceased loved one and write a letter from the deceased loved one back to the participant. 

From her description, the closure effect that the exercise had on participants seemed remarkable. 

Reading about the workshop gave me an idea: could I replicate the letter-writing task to address my predicament? Even though my person was still very much alive, I was ultimately grieving the role he played in my life—so, the exercise felt fitting. 

Starting with my letter to him, I unleashed the torrent of thoughts, feelings, and emotions I had been experiencing on paper—crying, cursing him out, and sending blessings his way as I wrote it. Addressed to him; signed by me. 

And, like I mentioned, it felt good but not quite enough to stop the overwhelming feeling of needing to make contact. 

So, I moved on to Part 2: crafting “his” response to me.

It was easier than I thought it would be—the words flowed naturally and the letter ended up being more succinct than I had envisioned. And, most importantly, it outlined a scenario that was both realistic and one that offered me peace. 

Ultimately, the letter presented a possibility I could live with. And that’s the most important thing—it doesn’t really matter how much truth there really is to it. 

So, I chose—and am continuing to choose—to believe it and move on.