Let’s start out with the usual disclaimer: this blog post is not intended to dispense professional mental health care advice, blah blah blah. If you need mental health care, go to a mental health care professional. That should be obvious. If you require serious help, there’s a therapist out there who’s waiting for your call.

However…I think it’s (legally) safe to say that many therapists advise their patients to keep journals as part of their treatment. There is widespread recognition that writing down your thoughts and feelings can help you cope with stress and anxiety, confront past trauma and process various emotions, good and bad.

In other words, writing has therapeutic value. And all this time, you thought writing was just a frustrating, crazy-making process!

If you keep a journal, could you – should you – use the deeply private thoughts in it as fodder for your creative writing? Should you lay bare the most private events of your life? Will it expose you to emotional harm? If there are others who appear in your journal entries, will they recognize themselves and be angry or upset with you, even if you change names and descriptions to conceal their identities?

In other words: will the creepy uncle who molested you when you were a child come after you with angry recriminations, or even a lawsuit, if you write about him and about what he did to you?

Fuck the creepy uncle.

Badass writers own their lives. Badass writers own the events that shaped them; the things that happened to them and they things they themselves did. Right or wrong, good or bad, the incidents, people and feelings that have made you who you are will also help make you the writer you want to be.

A play I wrote, “The Bucket List of Booze Club,” had a character in it, Amy, who was caregiver for her mother, who had Alzheimer’s. I drew on my own experiences for Amy’s dialogue. Whenever I worked on her monologues, I wept. Seriously. I cried buckets. That was because I was keeping it real.

Here is one of Amy’s monologues:

I got her one of those shower chairs so she can sit down once she’s in there, but getting her to step into the bathtub is hard. She’s scared. Afraid of falling. I have to hold onto her. She’s not heavy. In fact, she’s getting lighter and lighter, as if she’s just going to float away some day. When I’m bathing her…I can’t stand seeing her scared like that. And I try to reassure her, but I think she’s not just scared of falling. I can’t tell her not to be afraid of dying because it’s coming for her. I hope her mind is too far gone to understand that. And in the shower, she keeps thanking me again and again. She probably senses, somewhere in her mind, that her hygiene is…not good. She would have been horrified to know that she smells. And the adult diapers…

I’m not going to tell you that using your own painful experiences in your writing is easy. It’s not. Did I mention that I cried when I wrote parts of this play? And I’m not a big cryer.

It can be cathartic. It can help you work through things in a way that also helps other people. I’ve had so many audience members tell me that what Amy went through resonated with them. That somehow, seeing a hard part of their own lives play out in front of them, on a stage, was beneficial. It made them understand that they hadn’t been alone in what they’d gone through. During Amy’s most difficult scenes, there was an almost palpable feeling of recognition rippling through audiences. I am not the only person who’s ever been a caregiver for a parent with Alzheimer’s.

Whatever has happened to you- whatever you’ve been through- others have experienced it to. What you write can resonate with them, if you write well. If you write with honesty. It may not have a therapeutic effect for them (or for you, for that matter), but there is value in making people feel seen and heard, and that is what writing about your difficult experiences can achieve.