Discovering Writing Therapy

By Chris Dunmire

1996 was the first year in my life that death touched me on an extremely personal level. In 24 years, I had already experienced the death of three grandparents, an uncle, a cousin, and several acquaintances. But 1996 was the first year that I experienced the death of a sibling — ironically, only a week after my aunt passed away.

In the beginning of May, my Mom's sister Mary died after a long struggle with emphysema and other health issues. Aunt Mary was my Mom's only sister, one that I had few memories with growing up. I knew that she was 16 years older than my Mom and lived in Indiana. Besides a few visits to her house when I was a child, I had no other memories of my Aunt. My Mom did, however, and my heart was pained for her as she was forced to say goodbye to her older sister.

Despite the sadness we were experiencing, our family became closer as we drove back and forth together from Illinois to Indiana during the two days of the wake and funeral. It had been years since my parents, sister, niece, nephew, and I spent "family" time together, and I sensed how much all of us enjoyed reminiscing over the past and conversing about our present lives during the hours we spent on the expressway.

We were all mentally and emotional exhausted by time the funeral was over. Aunt Mary was in her final resting place, and we were all grateful to be alive. Funerals have that effect on people. The living must go on, with a renewed perspective of how fragile and temporary life is.

I went back to work the following Monday morning, May 13, quiet through the day with emotional leftovers from the week before. In time I'd be okay, I reminded myself.

I arrived home that evening to a message on my answering machine. It was a short message from my Mom telling me to call back because she had "more bad news." I immediately called my parent's house and my Dad answered. Though I can't recall his exact words, it went something like this:

Dad: "It's about Tom. He had an accident at work, and he's gone."

Details of the week that followed are a bit surreal. I was in shock trying to accept that my big brother was no more. I remember calling up my supervisor the next day, telling him what happened and requesting more time off. I worried that people wouldn't believe my story of two relatives dying within a week of each other. After all, it entitled me to paid bereavement time off.

It took me a good couple of months to get my bearings again after Tom died. Two things helped me immensely through the grieving process: grief counseling and enrolling in my first college class, English 101.

I took the English course over the summer, which meant it was an accelerated class, meeting half the time for twice as long. Tuesday and Thursday evenings after work I'd have place to go where I found comfort in expressing myself through writing.

Our last assignment was to write an anecdotal paper about 'a person who greatly impacted our life.' At first I was going to write about a famous person or religious icon, but then realized that it was a good opportunity to write about my brother.

I spent the next couple of weeks revisiting my childhood memories about Tom. I drafted my anecdotes, reliving the earlier experiences of sibling rivalry and jealousy that existed between us — to the brief encounters we had as adults. I wrote openly and honestly about my memories and regrets and detailed how I felt during the wake and funeral. It wasn't long before I discovered how much Tom's life and death impacted me.

Digging deep into myself for the writing assignment opened up something that I was unprepared for. About halfway through my drafting, I had unleashed a flood of emotion and suddenly became an active participant in my own healing process.

Through heavy sobs and streaming tears I typed furiously for hours at my computer. My chest hurt from all of the deep crying and emotion pouring out of me. Yet, at the same time, I knew it was good for me. It was therapeutic. I was experiencing uninhibited emotional release. That paper became a vehicle for the healing I needed.

By time I finished the paper I was feeling so much better. Things unsaid and authentic feelings I had for my brother were no longer bottled up. As a testimony to their authenticity, my feelings were validated and solidified with ink on paper. They were free. I was free.

It's been eight years since I wrote that paper in English 101. Even now when I skim it, I feel the emotional energy my heart and soul experienced while creating it. It may have been uncomfortable and painful at the time, but now I realize how important it was for me to to write it. Since then I've realized what an enormous emotional outlet writing has become for me. I've discovered it to be a therapeutic tool and an honest legacy of my essence I can leave behind for others. •

© 2004, 2009 Chris Dunmire. All rights reserved.