Putting Feelings into Words by Dr Elizabeth McCardell, M. Couns., PhD

When a client comes to work with me one of the first things I ask of them is to write down feelings, thoughts and dreams. The reason is not just to create a text for reflection and discussion, but to develop the process of learning to witness their unconscious processes. It’s a practice I’ve been engage in for practically all of my adult life and I can attest to actual changes in my approach to living.

What happens with such witnessing is that the waves of emotion no longer have a big grip on daily life. I began the process decades ago because I realized that if I allowed those massive deluges of emotions to dominate my life, I probably wouldn’t survive. I understood that it really was critical for me to find a way to live moderately, with awareness. And so, I started writing. This writing has evolved into many variations on the original theme, from self observation to others. It now incorporates my professional and academic insights. The insights have become outsights (if I may call this article one of these).

Writing, as therapeutic tool, is much used by psychodynamic practitioners like myself in various ways. The psychodynamic approach suggests that human behaviour is generated by unconscious processes and that the therapeutic purpose is to bring such unconscious things into conscious awareness for fundamental change in everyday life. 

The process of writing does not include interpretation, though these may be suggested in the psychotherapeutic session itself by both client and therapist. It merely records whatever the clients wants to bring up. The text may be accompanied by drawings, if the client wishes.

Till recently, I  just intuited tangible shifts in awareness in myself and my clients but now I’ve discovered that neurological brain research has found that this has a measurable aspect as well. Brain imaging studies show the writing down one’s feelings changes how the brain works. The emotional circuits of the brain (the amygdala) show reduced activity.  The amygdala lies deep within the temporal lobes, and is an essential part  of the limbic system. It is primarily responsible for processing emotions, particularly fear, anxiety, and aggression and attaches emotional value to memories. It also triggers fight-or-flight responses. What happens when you write your feelings down, instead of being overwhelmed by such feelings – as these brain studies have shown – there is reduced amygdala activity along with an increased engagement of the prefrontal cortex. 

The prefrontal cortext supports planning, reasoning, and self-regulation. Simply put, writing things down reduces the welling up of emotions to being able to manage life more effectively. Your thoughts are structured and externalized into written form and thus they lose much of their grip, thus cutting down feelings of stress. You can step back and observe your interactions and behaviours and thus proceed in emotional safety without being swept up in realms you can’t manage.

There is an added benefit to the process of writing: you end up with a record of your therapeutic journey which, in itself, can be used to develop other possibilities for your own life. Maybe the writings can become a memoir, a novel, a series of poems, theoretical discoveries, whatever.  I’ve had clients utilize their writings in the form of all these things, which delights me. And of course, the very activity of the writing process itself is therapy, and a very valuable  and wonderfully self clarifying one.

Life Chooses Life by Dr Elizabeth McCardell, M. Couns., PhD

 

November 2024

 See also http://www.nimbingoodtimes.com/archive/pages2024/nov/NGT-1124-24-29.pdf

[Please note the date. It’s an old article, as are most being published here. It’s been nearly a year since I wrote it and, though, I’m still recovering from the whole thing, I am considerably better. I also note that I’ve written about it for the purpose of sharing my humanity, which is the first base for working with other people therapeutically.]

I’m told that in Mexico when you get to your 70s you are said to have reached the 7^th floor. Very bizarrely, I was recently on the 7^th floor of my third hospital where all the geriatrics were put. I’ve been rather seriously ill with a blood sepsis and near organ failure and the 7^th floor was meant to be a rehabilitation ward, but I was in a room with a woman with dementia and some of the nurses seemed to think I too had dementia (very frustrating!). One asked, after my last shower there where I’d washed my hair in preparation for going home, if I knew how to comb it.  Yes, yes, yes, I said - irritated out of my brain. I wasn’t there because I’d lost my marbles, I was there just because I needed physiotherapy to walk again, without assistance.

I walked out of there determined to get back into the swing of life and work as quickly as possible, and I’m getting there. I’ve resumed seeing clients online. Please email me on dr_mccardell@yahoo.com for further information.

 One of the medical doctors asked me at the second of the hospitals if, in the case of near death, would I want to be resuscitated. I had to think; to weigh up questions of the meaning of life; to consider what matters most to me as a living person. This is, after all, an existential question that we all must face sooner or later. I replied, after some thought, “Life chooses life.” And so it is. I guess that if I was closer to death, I may have chosen death, but I have an abundance of life, more to live, to give, to celebrate.

 Being a patient in hospital is a strange disjointed thing, a Dali-esque  thing. You are treated as both object and subject, at once. There I was using a bed pan and – at the same time – being measured up for a pressure sore prevention cushion by an occupational therapist. There I was wrapped only in a towel sitting in a wheelchair after a shower and wheeled out into the hallway filled with medical students and no-one noticing anything. Exposed, and yet, not. There I was trying to engage a young doctor in conversation (because befriending people is what I do, and doing so changes the dynamic rather wonderfully between us) while she painfully inserted a cannula into a vein on my wrist. The illness, itself, was felt subjectively, but objectified at the same time: a timely reminder that, as a dear mentor puts it, we are not our bodies. Bodies change, age, decay, but our spirit lives on, just as buoyantly as ever. And we can learn to watch all this happening. For life chooses life, even as if it feels like an energy beyond our selves (which it is).

 Learning the art of mindfulness, of witnessing without interpreting according to our problem stories (our neuroses), is the art that I try to encourage in my clients and which I tried to practice in the near month of illness and hospital experiences. I can’t say that I succeeded all the time. My tendencies towards impatience flared up pretty often, but – even these – I attempted to witness without excuses. All this isn’t easy, but I believe, it’s worth it for the sake of equanimity, as well as fairness towards other people.

 The practice of lucid dreaming is a helpful start to the art of mindful witnessing. We don’t have to get caught up in our habitual ways of responding, but can choose how to resolve our issues. The dreamscapes of our mind are not predetermined and we can wake from them consciously. I think consciousness is life’s purpose, that, and love/compassion.

 One of my greatest regrets is that I was unable to contact all my clients while hospitalized because my new phone had lost a number of contacts. To these people, I’m deeply sorry. I hope that those who were affected have found another therapist, or perhaps would like to contact me again. I do not like leaving people unsupported.

 

 

Discovering the Resources We Possess by Dr Elizabeth McCardell, M. Couns., PhD

 

August 2024.

 

“Every person has more resources than they realise”, as Milton Erickson put it. Erickson was a founder of modern hypnotherapy, an American psychiatrist whose greatest skills were his capacity to observe and listen very closely to his clients and utilize their inherent resources. 

 In such close listening and observing he learned much more about the whole person than his medical diagnostic training may have produced, and he acted on it. His methods were quite eccentric. Sometimes someone would come to his Phoenix, Arizona house with a particular problem but who was so preoccupied with the issue that they didn’t actually listen to what Erickson had to say, so he had them climb a high peak outside the city and then come back for their session. Then, the real work could happen. Another client came to study Erickson’s methods (and he came preoccupied with his own self importance), so Erickson had him work in the garden, which was cacti and stones and not much else. When we are preoccupied, we neglect paying attention to very ordinary things so encouraging the doing of the ordinary is very valuable. Climbing a mountain or talking about ordinary things,  puts clients back in their bodies and makes them attend to the here and now and thereby reconnect with the resources that they’d forgotten about.

 I’m less about extremes, but I will talk about ordinary things – interspersed with the problem that the client came to work out – to reassert a groundedness and to help the person not get stuck in the murkiness of the issue that has preoccupied them.

We all have more resources than we realize, and attending to ordinary everyday stuff is part of that. Erickson used this knowledge to regain muscle strength and mobility after spending a year in an iron lung after contracting polio at age 17. He began to explore autohypnosis and concentrating on the body memories of the muscular activity in his own body. He learned totweak and stretch his muscles and to regain control of parts of his body, to the point where he was eventually able to talk and use his arms. Then he trained his body by embarking and completing a thousand-mile canoe trip. Extraordinary man! On his return he attended the University of Wisconsin-Madison, graduating in both psychology and medicine and then in psychiatry. All these experiences helped in his work with clients and students. Most particularly, though, they focussed attention to the people around him; enabling him to notice not just what they said, but how they said it, and what their bodily expressions had to add to their presence.

 Unfortunately polio comes back to bite you. The virus that affects the nerves and the spinal cord and may affect the breath and can lead to paralysis, doesn’t go away, but returns later on in life. In his late 40s Erickson got post-polio syndrome and became too weak to walk, even with sticks, and so was bound to using a wheelchair.  But this article is less about Erickson and more to do with listening and observing and utilizing all the resources we all have.

 He didn’t just listen to what the clients said they wanted, but observed them to identify what they needed.  This is not to say that Erickson always got it right. There are several cases that he missed the boat entirely, but this is not unusual for any therapist. We are  fallible. Nevertheless, what he taught us about listening, observing and utilizing the resources and strengths each client brings to a session is invaluable. We need to move beyond a self or medical defined diagnosis (eg the person who comes saying they have clinical depression) to understanding how ordinary resources can be drawn upon to grow beyond their problem story. The art, of course, is to say this in an acceptable way to the client, so that they  do not simply reject the therapeutic session. Exploring the subtleties of generally overlooked resources can be the way forward to untangling presenting problems in a safe and acceptable way. Listening, observing and witnessing person is critical and doing good work from that point onwards.