Creative Therapeutic Writing

The Gift of Love and Writing       

Experimenting With Voice


If I look back over my life, I’ve probably fallen in love in every decade – from a schoolgirl crush in my teens to passionate love in the next thirty years or so until my fifties.

Love and its strangulations are the stuff of drama. It takes us to the theatre, to the cinema – or maybe nowadays to Netflix. It buries us in books. Writers grapple with their fictional characters and scenarios in their novels; write poems and plays. Because love and relationships are among the most important forces we address in one way or another.

Here I show various pieces I’ve worked on creatively and therapeutically. As my blogs are based on my own lived experiences, this one presents as much of a risk to me as writing about mental illness. But I speak from a place in the future – many years after these were written. That is why I’m able to share them.

One of the advantages of becoming older is to be able to look back over a long writing life. In recent years love and writing have become rather interwoven. I’ve found surprising insights I would never have discovered without my recurrent free-writes and experimental ways of expressive writing. I explored ways of writing during that rosy flush of romantic euphoria when love first lets itself be known. I wrote with Voices spanning different perspectives and expression: the Wise, the Naïve and the Lyrical.


First is my Wise Voice. This inner voice is not always easily heard so I have to listen very hard. But it is always one I trust. I find it when I’m very still. I described this aspect of the self through accessing the wisdom of King Solomon in an earlier blog on the Wise Self (see: Blog 9). In a way it feels like the Wise Voice speaks through me, beyond my emotions. It makes me feel grounded too. I’ve used Capital Letters with intent:

I have found myself doing the love thing in my writing. And it is held in writing not in the body. It gives me trust in what real love means for me, shows me how it exists, not through owning it as my particular love belonging to me to give – paradoxically of course it is mine – but knowing it exists of its own accord. Love just is. Love is a gift as Writing is a gift. Without Writing, I would be bereft. Without Love, I would be bereft.

That piece of writing showed me how, in the depths of loving someone else, I might discover a place not driven by ego and need. A new experience. Love comes in many configurations. Writing through tapping into my Wise Self helped me find a new form for loving. It taught me to respect the existence and feeling of love and to trust it as I trust my writing. I don’t know where it will lead me, I wrote but as with my writing I had to trust in the great unknown which is essentially the creative process. And by that I live.

THE NAÏVE (or Inner Child’s) VOICE

The next piece experiments with a Voice trying out the inner child’s viewpoint. No grown-up measured self here. Just straightforward language:

And it is a terrible thing if you want to say: I love you and the words are stuck and do not come out of the throat and it is like a ball of sunlight in the heart. If you say nothing the ball stays there. But then it wants to get its rays out and put the words on them. And if you can’t tell these words – the sunlight swirls around and can’t get out and makes the person uncomfortable with a lot of heat.

And if the words from the heart can’t find a way out through the voice they go round and round in the head all day long and all night long. You want to tell the person you love that I love you is what you want to say. But when the words get so close to the heart it is very scary.

I want to stop the going round of words in my head. I want to speak the words and if I can do that then maybe the fire of the sun will not get stuck inside my body and want to make me explode and the sun will shine its rays in the sky where it belongs.

Children don’t speak like this and very soon I called this my Naïve Voice. I found myself describing adult feelings with simplicity. I move around between the first and second person pronoun but the ‘I’ Voice is pretty emphatic; there is punctuation but with this voice it is tempting to use little and stick to the lower case too.

In circumstances where one / you / I might not want (or not be ready) to say three words with such potency, this voice abandons being sensible, abandons feeling reasonable, abandons being rational. It gives such a freely expressive approach.

Here’s an even younger insistent Voice. A two year old in an adult body:

2 yr old:  What I want I want and I want it now and for now and for always and immediately.

Adult Self:   You can’t have what you want.

2 yr old:  You pretend I don’t exist. I do. It’s because of you I can’t have what I want.

Adult Self:  Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anyway it’s good to have the wantings. Wantings are not bad. Just not always possible. A two year old can’t understand how grown ups think. What I really want is the cuddles.

2 year old:  I like cuddles and kisses. That’s what I want too.

And so the foot-stamping toddler was listened to and appeased. And the adult was free to write more lyrically.


Sweeping Leaves
The eight o’clock sun is warm on my shoulders as I sweep the path on three sides of our house. I sweep and scoop up the winter-curled oak leaves from underneath stones, the withered wisteria blooms which only last week were fresh in their pale mauve scents, bits of twigs, cut the nettles back.

I could sweep for the rest of my day, the rest of my life like the monks set to sweep whilst brains coil and recoil. I am sweeping and clearing all the days up to this one. They line up behind this morning ready and waiting to be swept – not away – not swept away – but here to be brushed down with all that has been.

Old loves too tightly entwined all prised off, fallen and tumbled through too many years. I have no idea how to do a new love which asks for its own truth ever since it surprised itself into existence. Let it breathe lightly in its own expansive way and find its own form as each day speaks and I listen to its voice.

As I swept the leaves I thought of zen monks in monastery gardens clearing the leaves in front of their huts, purposefully lifting an ordinary task to the level of meditative awareness and practice.

I discovered through my writing a refreshing insight which I hadn’t found in other relationships. One that meant Love was not to be owned; a real love survives on its own terms. It exists in its own right between two people, between friends or even sometimes momentarily in the passing of a complete stranger for a second or two.

Discovering this possibility that I needn’t own Love gave me an enormous freedom to explore these different expressive styles. Because I found new ways to write and experienced Love speaking through me, I released a feeling of loving everybody. That was the biggest surprise. And over time this love has grown in richness and fullness for life itself.

Here I’ve wanted to show how explorations with these different Voices have really transformed my feelings and understanding about Love. Matters of my own heart may be private, but experiences of how I have loved is pivotal to my writing. Not to be swept away with the leaves.

I’ve witnessed myself meeting many challenges with different kinds of loving relationships. Even if writing raises more questions than answers, it does the trick of settling me as I watch the page or screen generously accepting all my words and feelings. As a writer I spill my bleeding heart into my drafts but take the outpourings off the page (or screen) as poems or prose emerge from all my scribbling. Writing holds my passion, my creativity, my life. Fitting then, to end with one of my poems called: Love – in the week after Valentine’s Day.


The chrysalis hangs
over-winter by a silk thread on the branch
which spreads itself across the yellow-blaze-risen sky

It feeds from tiny arrows
shot from the deep secrets of the blood-red earth

It unfurls like a green veined leaf on a May morning
as the butterfly opens its darling wings


ⓒ Monica Suswin  February 2016

Poem & Prose from my book ms – Chapter 2: Butterfly


Creative Therapeutic Writing

Visible Vulnerability

Attachment-1Through the process of creative therapeutic writing I have uncovered and explored my own vulnerabilities. The physical act of writing makes visible what has been stored invisibly in my mind.

Below are two poems which nestled in the impulse to form words, rested embryonically – if you like – until each took shape on page, then screen.

This key theme of Visible Vulnerability emerged over a year of giving presentations of my work in different UK cities and counties: Cardiff, Norfolk, my own village in Sussex and at the end of this week a fourth in London.

Because my pieces were written around ten years ago I wasn’t feeling particularly vulnerable in advance about reading them to an audience. I was ready. The writing had definitely helped to integrate the experiences into my present life. Speaking in public and posting my blogs has given me a big step into the open. I feel it is great we are as a society acknowledging long-held taboo areas of life.

Yet wobbly responses came. In Norfolk I instigated a break because I felt a need to go out of the room and compose myself. There and in Cardiff I’d seen tears in the audience. That moved me too. I find the power of this kind of writing lives on the page and as I spoke my own words, they were still potent to touch me emotionally.

One relevant question posed:
how do I write about traumatic events without taking myself back into the original feelings of depression?
My answer:
I write only enough to name what has been without all the details. 
See some of the ways I write in this guest blog:

Becoming Visible

I first became visible in December 1948. My own beginning was a bungled birth with an inexperienced mid-wife and a mother who knew nothing of childbirth.


You never knew the way out for me.
Against the hard rock of your pubic bone,
I rammed and butted

hour after hour twisting and tearing
the membranes of your too narrow vagina.

You were pethidined out and the mid-wife
on her first ever shift made the mistake
of urging too soon, too many times: Push

And my naked baby self jutted stuck.
They called Doctor Clark back from the nineteenth hole
to clamp and remove me

It is true this is the story of my birth
just as you told me     just as you told me
this story stays as if I were there
aware of fighting my way out

into my life with the imprint of this birthing
played out like a hymen stretched between me and the world.


The following poem, I feel, is a celebration for this life (so far) that belongs to me.

Easter Sunday Blessing

I have stretched finger-tips far into darkness
Now with these two hands
May I give and may I receive
May I keep my feet on my own soil
And as I walk this earth alone
May I not fall over the edge
For we have known for some time
That this globe is round
May I walk its entire girth
And always find my own beginning


Staying Visible

I type this while world leaders are debating their responses to the barbaric destructive actions of men and women who are terrorising cities and countries with shootings, bombings and the slaughter of fellow human beings. Their incomprehensible and distorted mindsets allow them to murder and dehumanise the sacredness of others.

After the Paris attacks, my free-write told me all I can do is witness the stories of those affected by listening to those who escape with their lives. All writing is helpful to find out what I think and feel about the outer world as well as my inner one. That metaphorical hymen stretched between me and the world has been pierced. I belong in the world. My writing tells me so.

Over the next few months, I will be posting blogs around the theme of vulnerability. I don’t know which pieces I’ll choose but I look forward to making them visible.

ⓒ Monica Suswin November 2015

Next Presentation:
Creative & Therapeutic Writing – Links and Differences
The Poetry Cafe – Covent Garden, London WC2H 9BX
London Lapidus meets Saturday 28 November 2015

Starting at 2pm – the annual AGM for all Lapidus members (The Writing for Wellbeing Organisation)


If any group of writers would like to contact me about visiting to give a presentation (reading, discussion & writing) on any of my themes please get in touch.

Previous Presentations in 2015
The Truth & Lies of Writing – Lapidus Conference. Cardiff. Wales. (March)
Soul Works – Forest Row Festival. East Sussex. (September)
Visible Vulnerability –  Lapidus East Anglia. Wymondham. Norfolk. (October)


Creative Therapeutic Writing

                 Ouroborus                                                                                          3rd Century  (Greek)

The Wise Self

Wisdom is a combination of intelligence, experience and judgement

Visiting a friend for the last warm weekend of August, I asked her how she thought about wisdom. Her answer bypassed intelligence and after a moment’s pause she quietly said: ‘heart and intuition’.

Intuition and his ‘accursed human education’ exercised D. H. Lawrence when he wrote the long narrative poem: The Snake. On self-imposed exile in Italy -away from hostility towards him in England – he wrestled with this inner conflict. It is exactly the way he expresses the two sides of himself which draws me to this poem. When snakes have become the theme of my own poems, I’ve found what I can only call my wise voice from the depths. It makes me think that the archetypal energies of the snake seem to direct the writing towards wisdom.

It was the snake’s voice which spoke in the Garden of Eden – the first book of the Bible: Genesis. My own heritage rests within the Judaic-Christian culture. It may be disingenuous to consider the snake’s voice as a wise one since the creature was forever condemned to slither in the dust, after tempting Eve to eat the fruit from the forbidden tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Yet isn’t being both good and bad exactly the truth about our human lives? This schism is mirrored in the snake’s venom – extracts from its poisonous venom are able to be used medicinally for healing. A perfect holding of the duality: death and life.

Wisdom through the Animal Kingdom

For he seemed to me again like a king
Like a king in exile.

In the poem Snake, Lawrence described an event with a real snake but it also acts partly as metaphor (see: poem in its entirety at the end). Consistently through the stanzas, he traces the conflict within himself between his empathetic and instinctual feelings and ‘the voices of my accursed human education’ (kill the snake). That last learnt voice half-heartedly won out as he feebly threw a log at the snake whilst it disappeared down a hole.

This ‘mean act’ flipped him into regret – and at the same moment he saw the snake as ‘one of the lords of life’, finally elevating him to a state of majesty and making himself aware of his own ‘pettiness’. The inherent wisdom in the poem is the expression of both sides of Lawrence’s nature and conflict.

Expressing Duality

Because the snake sheds its old skin and there is a new one underneath, this has given rise to a further symbolism of renewal or rebirth. Thirty years ago, I wrote a poem called: Snake. My female snake, however, did not slake off her outer skin but revealed an inner pattern of vulnerability which melded with the nature of her outer force.

I wrote this poem so long ago I remember little of the circumstances, but something in me had found this wise voice to articulate the fusing of the old and the new. And I kept it hand-written in my files. I believe I was expressing the experience of merging my outer and inner selves in my mid-thirties: integrating my own power in a new way through my metaphorical snake. Here’s the snake’s voice in the last stanza:

I cleave my power amidst the ancient-wise and each new day
and that is what I need to do
and all I need to do


Recognition of a Wisdom

The snake is one of the world’s most potent symbols feeding into mythologies reaching far back into antiquity in continents as far apart as Africa, India and the Americas.


The serpent biting its own tail
dates back to ancient Egypt and Greece.
The eternal cycle of life is just another of the implicit meanings

There are times when a poem emerges and feels like a voice has come through containing more than you ever thought you were going to write about or had in your consciousness. The wise voice possibly. Here is such a poem:


Here is the golden snake on his way
along the bridge from eternity to now.

He comes from no beginning
He goes towards no end
When he rests he loops himself
until his mouth encloses his tail
and he sucks in time until it disappears

And there is no end and no beginning
and no separation of heaven from earth
when your eyes are open, watchful
for his sharp tongue, his sudden movement

As long as you know how to let your footsteps
tread along the bridge one foot after the other


Movement here goes into resting with the circular looped image of the snake’s agile body making time disappear. But the concept of eternity is hard to grasp and each of my poems dealt with time and space: the first aware of ‘each new day’ and the next – the treading of ‘one foot after the other’. After all that is how we perceive we go forward in life with a linear concept of time.

Defining Wisdom

Perhaps time to think how I might define wisdom. I took to some free-writing before reaching for the dictionary. The sentence at the top of this blog came at the end of much scribbling over two A4 sides in answer to these questions:

What is wisdom?
Am I wise?
Is so and so wise?
Is another so and so wise?
What is the difference between intelligence and wisdom?

Through answering my own questions (which could be applied I guess to any abstract human quality) I arrived at my succinct and short sentence. Then and only then did I look up my OED definition. I felt really pleased with what I found:

combination of experience and knowledge
with the ability to apply them judiciously 

Wisdom through a historical figure:
King Solomon – the Decision-Maker

King Solomon’s wisdom was praised in the Bible. Living in the land of the Hebrews, he reigned in the 10th century B.C.

And God said unto him….Because thou hast asked for thyself understanding to discern judgment…. Lo, I have given thee a wise and an understanding heart. . .                (1 KINGS 3 v: 11-12)

A very dear friend talked to me frequently about her dilemma about moving house. She was a very good journalist and we always talked about writing. As I often do (whether friends are writers or not) I suggested doing some writing around her indecision. Why not imagine an Internal Decision Maker? I suggested she thought of a person dead or alive who was good at making decisions. Immediately she came up with King Solomon. Brilliant, I thought. An inner wise-self as decision-maker.

Because she loved the theatre, I thought she’d like to write a dramatic dialogue between herself and King Solomon about whether to move house or not. Always full of good writing ideas, I’m used to friends and family not following up my ideas. My friend was no exception and didn’t do the writing.

What we had no idea about was that within two years she would die. By default, it was certainly the best decision not to move house, to be near friends and familiarity. Maybe this without knowing why underlaid her uncertainty.

Nevertheless because I thought it would be a good exercise, I took the liberty of writing on her behalf. Here is the imaginary dialogue:

Indecisive Self:     I have a decision I don’t know how to think about at the moment. I am not ready to make it. Everyone is telling me it is my decision, and either way it is fine. A decision one way or another has to be made but there is no immediate urgency to make it. Only I’m unsure if it’s a good idea to do one thing or a bad idea to do the other. Everyone has said they will go along with my decision and it does affect the whole family. I am so unsure that I don’t even know what I want. I can’t even say: “ ‘No, I don’t want that’ or ‘Yes, I do want this.’ ”

King Solomon: If you do not make a decision, events and time will play themselves out. If you cannot make a decision, don’t make it. Life in the end will make it for you.

Sadly Life did make the decision. With hindsight maybe this was prescient. It was certainly the best decision. Even if she did not know why, my friend had an inherent wisdom and knew what she needed. When the time to go into the hospice came her friends were all nearby. By staying put she had intuitively known what she needed. Sometimes it is best not to do anything and see how time allows life to unfold.

Wisdom & Pettiness

An imaginary dialogue with another historical figure might fit the bill equally well; or some-one charismatic from contemporary life. Asking another friend her choice, she said Pallas Athene – the Greek Goddess of Wisdom. Socrates, through discussing language and the truth of names, in Plato’s Dialogues analysed her name as: ‘moral intelligence’ .

Lawrence drew out his own ambivalence through his long poem ending with that note of ‘pettiness’. Sometimes, I find myself expressing my own ‘pettiness’ vociferously with a momentary satisfaction of gloating bitchiness. The inner wise self has to put up with me not discounting my inner petty self too. I own both selves. Both are part of me.

King Solomon is quite straightforward and one dimensional. Do look up the story about his judgement to divide a living baby in half with his sword to settle a dispute between two mothers each claiming the child as their own.

The snake, however, has slithered through my text drawing me into its complexity and wily ways with so many different symbolic meanings I’ve had a tough time staying focussed on just a few. It may represent eternity as one of its many metaphorical meanings but time and space for blogging is limited and I already take a lot of both.

In my everyday life, I try to take each day as I plan it as well as experience what comes towards me. Being open to that awareness is the kind of wisdom I aim to live by.

Perhaps you have drawn on a creature from the land, sea or air to explore and articulate the wise part of yourself. Or maybe written in the voice of a person whether living or dead.

Please do make a comment.

ⓒ Monica Suswin

The Bible: Genesis (Chapter 3) & 1 Kings (Chapter 3 – verse: 11-12)
The Snake by D. H. Lawrence
The Dialogues of Plato (Cratylus – 407) translated by B. Jowlett. Oxford University Press (1892)
Extracts from my book ms: Erotic Alert (Chapt 3) & Shifting Boundaries (Chapt 5)


(further note: posting a poem in this format does not honour line breaks!)


A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.

In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough
before me.

He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,

Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.

He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.

And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.

But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?

Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.

And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!

And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.

He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.

And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.

I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.

I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.

And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.

And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.

For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.

And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.

D. H. Lawrence
Taormina, Sicily, Italy. 1923


Creative Therapeutic Writing


                            buildings of the future

Shifting Boundaries

a cluster of trees used as a boundary  (Old Breton)

When words emerge from inside my head onto screen or paper, they cross a boundary from inner self to outer world to make themselves visible. This blog uses mainly the unbounded form of free writing (see Blog 4) to explore some personal impressions of my own sense of boundaries.

Free-writing by its very nature is without the boundaries of formal writing and considered editing of prose or poems. When I free-write, I value a feeling of freedom within myself. Rather appropriate and paradoxical that this style of writing helped me know my boundaries better.

The OED defines boundaries in terms of ‘limits’ and ‘dividing lines’. A series of short limited journal extracts follow separated with explanatory headings.

Fixed Boundaries

Real walls don’t move – they are built of materials such as mud, stones or bricks, cement too. For thousands of years, they have provided dwellings for humans, for animals and given shelter from heat or cold.

When I look for boundaries I see them everywhere: walls, fences, railings, roof-tops, high rise flats, hedges and lines of trees. All around us in cities, towns and the country-side.

Personal Boundaries

My own boundary is rooted in the sense of myself as a person. My exploratory writing, however, has challenged an assumption that boundaries are definite and static. I discovered, only through writing, that my own boundaries are flexible and often on the move.

Here’s a question I set myself – the answer doesn’t deal with boundaries of time and space, but is more to do with the quality of self and relationship:

Why are boundaries important?

They make me aware of my individuality, more so now having lived alone for six years and being older. I feel defined with a sense of separateness. It has not always been so.

When I am with others I look for edges where I may meet and engage, usually in conversation and empathy. The image of iron filings comes to mind – thinking of the attraction and distances – within the field of energy between me and another person.

I value my personal space and the chameleon like quality my boundaries have depending on how I feel, my needs and responses in the moment and whose company I’m sharing. All of these are invisible indicators to me of the varying qualities of relationship.

Fixed & Permeable Boundaries

This is what I wrote in 2012:

Everything under the sun is on the move; the earth orbits on itself and around this massive ball of exploding gases held in shape through the force of gravity. The air in the atmosphere moves through our bodies as millions of cells inside us are constantly replacing themselves. Yet defining boundaries and the limit of things is what we humans do to the land, to our dwellings, to each other and to ourselves.

Gems in the Scribbles

Rambling free-writes from three or four years ago often gave me insights – like this gem:

It is the boundary between comfort and discomfort in my inner emotional life that I cross when I write in my own creative therapeutic way.

The Comfort & Discomfort Zones

Diary writing is triggered when I’m at my least comfortable – probably ambivalent, angry or upset – or possibly a combination of all three. When I start to feel uncomfortable, I may not be able to express myself in the moment. Sometimes it’s a slow dawning. Or the timing isn’t right. If my writing doesn’t resolve the issue or doesn’t make me feel better, I’ll give myself the boundary of a time limit and return another day.

Often this sort of writing may need a couple of stabs before comfort is reached again. The idea of discomfort stabbing the self may be apt as writing pierces through confusion to find clarity.

Here’s how I dealt with an uncomfortable feeling after seeing a friend:

As I wrote I put brackets around the friend’s name to match my cross feelings. That separated her out from me. I might have chosen to send a letter or e-mail. I chose neither. Although I said I’d be speaking or writing soon, I neither wrote nor telephoned. I later wrote an unsent letter (written in my diary but not sent). In staying silent, I locked her out, showed my passive disapproval – if only to myself.

Writing Life & Emotional Boundaries

Buried in one of my previous long free-writes (2011) was another gem of a sentence, which stopped me in my tracks:

In my personal writing I have no boundaries, which is why I need to do it.

I needed to know exactly what I meant and posed myself two questions:

What does having no boundaries in my personal writing give me?
Why do I need to write?

Here’s the answer:

It answers the creative source inside me. Creativity bubbles up whether from within or without when I am feeling open in mind and feelings. I am truly creative when I am receptive to what wants to come into and through my writing without form. Form in terms of style or working on a piece until it is satisfying crosses into another part of me (wearing the editor’s hat) and I love that too. I love all aspects of writing. But in order to do it, I must be boundary-less within myself. That’s what I experience.

When I first started to explore boundaries through writing about four years ago I quickly realised it’s a complex subject. I had made an assumption that I had no real sense of boundaries. Writing, however, made me see pretty quickly I had a good sense of my own personal boundaries. The writing at the time reflected emotions and explorations flowing every-which-way which I interpreted as a boundary-less place within.

As I write this blog, reassessing what I think and feel, I realise that my sense of inner boundaries has changed and firmed up quite considerably. Shifted in fact. There was a time when exploration was key to my writing. That time is not now. I’m following another direction. There are times for exploration and times for consolidation. Times for explanations. Times for pauses. Limits to the best of things like experiential and exploratory writing.

My current purpose is working with the material already written and explored to explain its power and effectiveness and bring it up to date. That in itself gives me a sense of the boundary I bring to this current blog writing.

ⓒ Monica Suswin 2015

Writing Exercises:
How are boundaries important to you?
What is the link between your writing and your internalised boundaries?

Please do make a comment. Thank you.

Skeat, W. (1893) An Etymological Dictionary of the English Language. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

Extracts: Shifting Boundaries (Chapter 5 – book ms.)


Creative Therapeutic Writing

   A Search for Meaning in Illness

yellow and blue fractal

If there is a meaning in life at all, then there must be a meaning in suffering.

Dr Viktor Frankl  (Austrian psychiatrist and neurologist)

Mental illness is a personal suffering and long ago I decided there was no meaning that I could find in my own clinical depressions. But through writing about them I have indeed found meaning. Not about the illnesses. But in the ways I found I could express myself. And what happened through staying with the process of that expressive and creative writing.

On my shelves is a very small book: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl (1905-1997). My copy (published in 1963) is a good read which is a curious thing to say about unimaginable circumstances: the author wrote about how he and others survived the concentration camps. The meaning, he means, is not to do with making sense of what is senseless but how man decides and chooses what attitude and approach to take of what is left of his life. Is s/he worthy of his sufferings? (My gender inclusion) he poses.

My trusting attitude could only be found when I was well and wanted to explore something about my illnesses through writing. Here I start with a memory, a disturbing one; meaning came much later.

off the wall

I spent the night in a cave of undergrowth

until dawn when the fox crossed my path

                                                                                        (an event 1993)

Writing Tames the Bad Times

For years at a time my well-being had never been in question. But in 1993 I was ill for a whole year and in hospital for much of it. Allowed home from the acute psychiatric ward, I’d spent a whole night outdoors only wanting to hide like a sick animal under a hedge. When I saw a fox moving through the grass, just yards from me in the early morning mist I noted it, but gave it no more thought. Yet that fox stayed in my mind for many years before I explored the hidden meanings for myself.

Well over ten years later, having moved to Sussex, I’d often see a fox basking in the sunshine from my bedroom window as I woke up to a lovely sunrise. It was usually curled up in the long grasses with its burnished fur, and the contrast would strike me between this waking and that other early morning dawn. I started to write about the fox’s beauty and the disturbing memory. The fox began to hold a symbolic meaning for my mental illness. In the now with its beauty, however, it also represented the good years of wellness. And so a duality was held which is the nature of powerful metaphors. When illness struck, however, it had become the metaphorical stink which entered the hole in my head (see: Blog 5 & Ted Hughes poem). A hole packed with anxiety, terror and fear; at other times empty, vacuous. A void.

Foxes live on the edge of cities and towns, scavenging where they may. Illness too is a scavenger of the body and mind. Illness tipped me quickly into an undoubted bio-chemical ill-balance: a clinical depression. Current research is only beginning to understand why the brain may become dysfunctional but then and now this is my touchstone to some form of comprehension beyond the blame I felt for my illnesses when younger.

Mental illness, also like the fox, is sly and cunning. Creeping up unawares, it always took me suddenly into its jaws and tossed me around, just like a fox or an angry dog might do.

Lion as Metaphor for Illness

Even before the fox became a metaphor, I had tried to describe in a short story, this terrible helpless feeling of being tossed around by illness. The story itself was multi layered with other meanings and events. The metaphor that came into being were golden lions woven into hangings pulled around a four poster bed. The setting was a medieval castle in the fenlands during the thirteenth century. My narrator was nameless to suit the nothing feeling of the ill-self. Her ‘I’ Voice was nevertheless fully owned as she was put to bed with a delirious fever with the warmth kept in by these curtains.

This extract was written in the present tense when the the fever had set in:

I’m crouching around the post of my bed, hiding between the linen folds of the curtain-hangings – they smell old and stale the lions are coming for me, their tongues are poison, their claws are sharp, serrated. I am in the lion’s mouth – chewed and tossed. They are delving into my stomach with their red tongues. I am split apart, torn open – the fodder of these beasts.

I coil up tightly into a quilt amongst the embroidered flowers, the crimson silk is cool and smooth to my skin. The lions arrange themselves into the wool yarn. The hangings are still pulled around the bed-posts. I have no desire to open them. Sleep is creeping over me. The breathing is easing. There is a yellowing of the denseness with the light of noon. I’m stretching out. The shivering is stopping. I draw the covers even closer around me.

I cannot tell you all there is to tell about this time lying on this great bed, hour after hour, day after day. I am alone as I’ve never been in any other time, with no comprehension or yearning.

When I was well and writing this fictionalised version I touched that old fearful feeling of incipient illness, but the writing gave me a new layer of images: these transformed into an imaginary but just as real memory. That contained the healing because something new was created which was not there before, making me feel less in the grip of the memories. A moving forward in life was more possible with this transformative power – only realised after the writing had been done. The process itself was experiential.

The reality I created in the four poster bed with the embroidered hangings allowed the flight of fantastic images. This gave me a clear boundary of how far I was able to stretch my imagination with what rang true. One of the lions having chewed and tossed the terrified narrator in its mouth had to return to the wool yarn of the hangings around the bed-post. And then something else happened as I wrote that passage:

Could it even be that the lions are smiling? Could it even be that the tear-drops are really golden rain? Beautiful. I am bathed in shafts of softness – light diffusing the boundaries which separate my body from the world around me into infinity. This is a joy inside the dimension of life, which claims me, though I am nameless, yet fills me with the bliss of being.

The crescendo of terror had waned into beauty. And that was how I found the ability to express the terrible fear I felt when ill, but the way the writing turned out gave me a wonderful and surprising shift into healing.

I followed the writing. I had no idea this was how it would evolve. It was the descriptions I chose which mutated into the terrifying images, but also succeeded in turning something horrible into something nurturing. During the process of writing, I actually moved into the bliss of being. These experiences were really felt in my body as I wrote. It was not just inside my head. It was all through me spilling onto the page.

I have found this transition with my writing time and time again. I start with a frightening memory and image and during the process of writing something shifts and is healing.

A Blaze of Yellow

Here is a poem which started with another frightening memory and then moved into the time of writing (2006) and a life affirming scene. Selima Hill had recently brought out a collection: Lou Lou (2004). So many of her poems about her time in a psychiatric hospital, resonated with me, and stimulated me to write my own.

A schizophrenic woman, dirty and dressed in rags, was admitted late one night to the high security acute psychiatric ward. I watched her moving along the corridor wall. In this poem, I transferred my own reality of unbearable mental illness through the remembered image of that terribly ill woman.


She is mincing her feet-steps staccato
side-ways, crabbing all four limbs
palms flat open fingers stiff spread
jabbing the crevices for fixings
for holding for the finding of
the hook that isn’t there
in the invisible wall
so she can unzip hang up her lunar jumpsuit
snuggle under duvet into cup of tea morning
yes-saying-sunshine in at the window
forsythia spikes, daffodils, cowslips      a blaze of yellow

Alongside that memory, I called on other images and integrated them into the second half of the poem. There are no separate stanzas. It is a compact and dense poem. Although there are commas there are no full-stops, and apart from the initial capital letter, all is in lower case. This helps the poem to flow along; the lines quicken and gained momentum, as well as getting louder and emphatic when read aloud.

The pace of the poem emphasised the crazy-ness; each end-line, up until ‘invisible wall’, merging into the following one – words carrying the impact until a pause before ‘the hook’. There were no hooks of course on either the hospital or an imaginary wall; I felt it echoed that experience of not being able to release myself out of day or night, not being able to find a dividing line in time. The image of this disturbed woman merged into a me who had hung up the madness, the craziness, through unzipping the lunar jumpsuit.

Every morning as I opened the curtains that April in 2006, the forsythia, the daffodils, the cowslips, all greeted me with their yellow-ness. Yellow is the colour of the sun, of freshness, new life in the garden blossoming; these images confirmed my good inner feelings. The poem is anchored by those last three lines of the welcoming morning cup of tea and the comfort of the duvet. Everything slows down for the last four words ‘a blaze of yellow’; this phrase is separated out on the page, so the bottom line acts as a foundation for the lines above and provided the full-stop to the poem.

All of this only became clear to me some time after the poem was written. There was no formula to draw on a memory, imagination and everyday images. None of the poetic devices were planned – they happened during the draft stages. I never approach a poem with rules but in retrospect and with reflection, I see that is what Nightmare contains to make it work.

Metaphor and Meaning

I’ve found metaphor so helpful in expressing and exploring my emotional responses to life. Unable to find meaning in incomprehensible illness, I have found my meaning in writing and its mysterious processes. None of this writing, however, was known to me before I started. My only intention being to write about the difficult times. And yet writing out of a place of pain revealed the converse to me: healing.

A metaphor works by calling upon a specific image from the real world to represent an abstract psychological state or episode. Ted Hughes explained in his chapter: Capturing Animals (Poetry in the Making – faber and faber: 1967) how to make language come alive, how he made his ‘thought-fox’ live through the words in his poem.

If you have a metaphor for an illness or difficult time of your life, I’d be really interested to hear. Please do make a comment. Thank you.

Read This:

Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl originally published after World War Two. Reprinted with various publications over the years and available. See:

Lou – Lou by Selima Hill (2004). Bloodaxe Books.

The Thought-Fox by Ted Hughes. (See Blog 5 for reference)


The Embroidered Quilt (short story)

A Fox Crossed My Path (Chapter 9 – book ms.)


Real Earthquakes


Authors , literary agents and writers of every persuasion are making donations to an on-line auction to raise money for the Nepalese people who have survived the appalling earthquakes. There was one more this week with a magnitude of 7.3.  All the monies will go to Earthquake Relief for Nepal, an appeal set up by New Zealand-based charity First Steps Himalaya.


I am offering a Writing Session in Sussex or on Skype and the bids are set to start at £25.

That’s a bargain!  Creative Therapeutic Writing isn’t about critiquing, as the description says, which is the category given. It will be my usual response to what is needed by the other writer. Apparently it will only be up for another 3 days which is why I am giving this maximum exposure now through tweets, face-book and blogging.

Here’s the link for those who might be interested:


Personal is Political

Living in Sussex, we are fortunate to live without earth tremors. Although the prospect of fracking into the nooks and crannies of the rock strata of the Weald Basin has unknown consequences. If you asked me if I were a political person, my answer would be: No, because my inner life has been so very demanding of my whole being. But with my understanding of the personal as political that’s the way I live: with small ripples for the few people in my social sphere.


Creative Therapeutic Writing

foxy curling up in my garden

foxy curling up in my garden

Nurturing & The Naïve Voice

Nothing can make up for a lack of nurturing from childhood, adolescence or even as a young adult. Therapies of different persuasions may assuage and address these feelings.

Writing looks after me in the present and has done so for years now. Writing nurtures me because my assortment of diaries, journals and notebooks are always within reach, always available. Wherever I am. In the house. When I travel.

Perhaps my need to write makes up for an earlier absence of nurturing; perhaps I’m like the toddler needing their Mummy or Daddy when I am comforted by my writing’s supportive nature. At times it’s an addiction like my need for coffee. Equally so there are welcome periods when I don’t need to write at all. This blog is about one tiny way some writing proved to be nurturing: both in process and in content.

The first piece is prose written with a voice I call ‘naïve’; the second a poem drawing on the same material but using my adult voice. I prefer this term ‘naïve’ rather than the familiar concept of the ‘inner child’, as I feel my own inner younger self is imbued with adult knowledge and consciousness. This expressive voice feels naïve rather than childish, or child-like. I also think of the wider meaning around nurturing, as separate from mothering.

The Young Inner Self

My reflections identify with the mischievous eight year old I once was – before Mother woke up to the fact I wasn’t going to grow up into a nice little girl, pirouetting onto the front page of Vogue. I became a tomboy with a mass of curls which frizzed up in the sea-air. She is my favourite inner self when my explorations have felt playful.

Creative therapeutic writing, however, also allows feelings to emerge which are anything but playful: like the unacknowledged feelings of shame or abandonment from earlier years. When I touch the hurts of my younger self, when I become more aware of these feelings from the past, I feel my vulnerability. I cannot go out and play.

Hurt Feelings from the Past

My subterranean emotional material emerges through my writing and I need to acknowledge those feelings as I would in any therapeutic sense. I may work with these emotions and explore them every-which-way; add, subtract and fine-tune my writing until I come to a natural stopping place. Sometimes that process will be enough just for myself; sometimes I’ll need a listener for my once hurt feelings, just like the toddler running to Mummy; some trusted listener to hear my words expressing in the present emotional responses which belong to the past. Tricky feelings may fall away and I’ll be able to let go of them. And then I’ll be free enough to find again my playful creative self.

Nurturing Feelings in the Present

My two pieces here express just what I needed to say and are only about comfortable feelings, the nurturing of myself, expressed in different ways. The first piece of prose was written on holiday in Scotland.

My naive voice is reflected in the simplicity of language chosen; any grammatical rules I would apply to proper or finished writing have been broken. I did, however, give this prose-piece a grown-up title with upper and lower case letters. The writing itself, however, is all lower case with a few full stops and commas, merely to help make sense.

Achmelvich Beach: Western Highlands, Scotland
17.53 hours

and it is not warm. there is wind. and the woman curls up on the white sand in the dunes and rests. first on the right side curl up, and then on the left side curl up. and then she sits up after half an hour, not knowing she was so sleepy and needing rest, and she thought she would have a walk over the green grass sheep shorn hill where rocks jutted out all smooth. but she didn’t, she sat with her knees all tucked into her chest and felt the warm sun on her skin and the wind in her hair and the sandy cliff against her back and the sands hard under her behind and the regular sound of waves breaking on the beach. the tide is going out. she knew she would not walk but stay very still and hug herself tight. and something very still is inside her and she does not have words for this but she knows this sitting very still on the beach is a good thing for her to do.

Even though I called myself the woman, I hugged myself tight as if I were both mother and child inside my own skin. My naïve voice brought simplicity to the style, but included my adult perceptions through description; each phrase making use of colour, the sound of the waves, movement, texture and the physicality of the body. Writing in the third person usually distances the self from the content, but I feel this is an intimate piece and by the end I had expressed the inarticulate.

The precise time of 17.53 hours recorded in my notebook ten years ago (2005) meant it was early evening. I remember the lovely western ocean light bouncing off the sea’s surface; a moment caught which brought back childhood memories of pale yellow warm sand.

One winter’s morning some months later I woke up feeling cosy in bed, which reminded me of the previous summer in Scotland. After several free-writes, a poem eventually emerged transferring the feeling of curling up. I kept all the words in lower case and omitted any punctuation. The poem was written with my adult voice:

Comforting Myself

when there I lay under duvet myself
and no other first on the right side
curl up, then on the left side curl up
hands around myself and no other
it’s not as if the blood ever stops its pulsing
as I pivot and spin around a still-point
over fifty years it’s taken for my own skin
to hold me tight and only the soft whorl
of my fingertip branding my lips

This cosy snuggling up under the softness of my duvet took just the shifting from the ‘right side curl up’ to the ‘left side curl up’ with a more mature expression. There was no sense of restlessness as each side experienced a self-hug, but there were more layered meanings about movement, stillness and holding as the poem moved rhythmically to the last line.

Integration Through Writing

Child or adult, we need emotional support and physical affection to function to our full potential. The nurturing qualities of my expressive writing around the difficult phases of my life brings together the vulnerable and the strong me. My writing emotionally supports my daily life; as well, of course, as the hugs I give and I receive.

These two pieces are included in my book ms in a chapter which dealt with my mental illnesses: A Fox Crossed My Path. As I was enjoying a great sense of well-being during the process of writing that chapter, I wove in poems containing good feelings, a response to my healthy life alongside awful memories which I can not forget. The fox became the metaphor for my illnesses with its ‘hot stink’ entering ‘the dark hole’ of my head.* Yet like the photo above and from a distance, the amber furred creature is beautiful and looks cuddly.

Literature may explore the childhood and teenage experience through giving the narrator an appropriately authentic voice. Creative therapeutic writing directly accesses your own version of these younger selves. You may like to call this an inner child’s voice, or a naïve voice as I do.


Prose & poem: Chapter 9 of my book ms: A Fox Crossed My Path.

Writing Exercises

Since I discovered my naïve voice, I’ve always enjoyed its playful nature. Insights, however, I’ve found come later, leading to or helping with the integration of feelings belonging to an earlier self with my present adult.

Here are my guidelines:

* Forget rules about grammar
* Write intuitively
* Play with punctuation or use none at all
* Write in the present tense to find the words in the now
* Experiment with finding your child-like but not childish voice
* Bring your awareness into how you use upper & lower case letters
* Allow your spelling to be erratic, if that fits

* Free-write on the theme of: Comforting Yourself

ⓒ Monica Suswin April 2015

Read This:

* The Fox by Ted Hughes (widely available)