Writing to process pain, and using the pain to fuel my writing
A rewrite of the same painful life episode, using free writing to cope · Trauma-informed storytelling to process the pain · Satire to alchemise it
Emotional pain is like falling endlessly inward, into a never-ending abyss of silent agony; like sharp needles being pinned down your throat all the way into your heart. Others can’t see it, and—if you’re suffering domestic emotional and psychological abuse—the person who does see it is the very source of your misery. It’s in their best interest to make you doubt that very pain.
See a journal as the ER. Letting it spill out onto the pages drains the built-up poison. It makes the manipulation, the power plays, and the second-guessing real. Something you can look at, name, and re-examine once you’ve had a moment of rest and solitary peace.
Once you’ve stopped bleeding, and you’re safe somewhere with no needles and no more free falls, write about what happened. And even later, when there’s nothing left but a small scar in your heart and a little bump in your throat that you feel when you’re cackling with laughter, then you’re ready, and you can shape that former brokenness into something sharp, absurd, and entirely yours.
Writing is a way to take your story back. To rewrite the ending you never got.
I’ll be using a real-life example here to show different writing approaches to help you cope (approach #1), process (approach #2), and alchemise pain (approach #3). I hope you don’t have to use approach #1 for too long, and can find the support and the determination to leave.
Trigger Warning: The following story mentions and depicts emotional and psychological violence, and might leave you feeling sad, anxious, or tense. So please make sure you’ve got the space to continue reading.
I’m making this personal because:
a) I’m afraid you can relate.
b) For me, even after months of therapy, stuff still comes up and wants to be looked at. Writing exercises like the ones I’ll share next can help process traumatic episodes, put them into perspective, give them meaning, help archive them—or alchemise them into satire. Like mushrooms growing on cow shit.
c) Vulnerability in storytelling creates space. Space allows us to own our experiences and realise that what happened to us doesn’t define us. It melts the illusionary shame of “failing” as a romantic partner, mother, daughter, you name it. And it helps us realise we’re not alone in this—and have never been.
To illustrate my points, I’ll rewrite the same episode in three different ways, moving from:
Its rawest, most unprocessed form,
To writing about what happened without re-opening old wounds,
To its most thought-out version, transforming trauma into dark humour.
Let’s start.
#1—FREE WRITING
There’s a sad but somewhat comforting truth:
Sometimes, only paper will listen.
Your diary, laptop, phone—or whatever you use to journal—listens without judgement, at any hour of the day or night. Journalling allows you to let your pain flow onto paper, cry as you write it out, or rip pages apart to channel your anger and frustration somewhere that is not another human being.
Journalling is the rawest, most immediate, and most honest form of writing.
It follows the stream of your consciousness, especially when you’re writing just to get it off your chest.
But without structure, it’s easy to circle the same thoughts without actually moving through them. Abuse has a way of making you feel untethered. The right prompts can pull you back into the present and help you untangle your thoughts. When there’s blaming, degrading, gaslighting, or interrogation, that is especially helpful. The key is to get it out as immediately as possible. Narcissistic abuse scrambles memory and emotion, and writing down what happened helps you remember it later.
As someone who has experienced emotional and psychological violence at home, you might find whole weeks or months missing from your memory, or that you can’t recall the details of certain distressing events. This is called dissociative amnesia, a survival mechanism to keep you functioning.1 When trauma involves betrayal, like abuse from someone you trusted, the brain is even more likely to suppress it— not because the memories are insignificant, but because they threaten the very sense of safety we need to function in an environment we’re stuck in.2
I remember even filtering the thoughts before writing them down in my journal entries. I was afraid my partner would read them, so I hid important diaries, wrote the entries in German, or, if words wanted to flow out in Spanish or English, then I wrote as illegibly as possible. But apart from hiding them from him, I also tried to hide them from myself. I was afraid to leave real raw proof of my pain because it cranked up the cognitive and emotional dissonance to an unbearable volume.
Pain going in vs. pain coming out
There’s a difference between pain going in and pain coming out. The first is feeling pain from abuse and suppressing it as a means to cope. The second is facing that pain, acknowledging it, and letting it out (onto paper, in this case).
Hence, why writing can feel freeing. It’s literally letting go of trapped pain.
Here is a (tidied up) version of an old journal entry I found. Tidied up so that it makes sense to someone who’s not in my head. My unedited entries are pure chaos, messy handwriting, thoughts jumping, entangled with the occasional epiphany. For this exercise, though, it makes more sense to give you a more streamlined read:
How did it start? I don’t know. Just that I felt it slipping and couldn’t stop it. I had promised myself to not make him angry this time.
«I have more important things to do than listening to your nonsense. You’re wasting my time. Pesada»
I’m taking it all in, patiently; letting his words grow roots inside me.
Maybe, he is right. I can change, be better, be like he needs me to be: not an inconvenience.
He’s made it clear, time and time again: He’s tolerating my presence, that I’m not 100% valuable to him. «Aportas un 90% valor a mi vida»
The remaining 10% I’m what? Difficult. Pesada. Taking up too much space. I’m in his way.
My throat is pulsating with the sobs I’m holding back.
No more thoughts now. Only pain.
He’s the man who had put a ring on my finger. The one who keeps saying, «Eres mi familia» The one I’ve built a life with. The one I love.
Air. Balcony. I hang the washing.
I hate this part. Where the pain seeps out of me; uncontrollably; where I can’t hide that I’m weak. «Necesitada»
Through the balcony door, I can see the front door shut behind him.
I don’t want him to go. I want him to stay. I want him to reach for me. I want him to look at my suffering and feel it, too. I want him to feel the weight of his own words, to hear them the way I do—I want him to know what it feels like.
So he’ll see me. So he’ll understand. So he’ll finally soften.
The door.
He’s back?
I turn, and he’s right there, in front of the balcony door, grinning at me from the inside.
And then he locks it.
He locked the balcony door!! My eyes wide with disbelief. I see him walking down the corridor, the front door shuts behind him.
Tears still drying on my face. Hands shaking.
I’m locked out. With nothing but our wet washing.
Fifth floor.
What the actual fuck?
The air is getting colder. It’s been 20 minutes, half an hour?
And then the lock turns, the front door swings open. He grins. Opens the balcony.
Psychopath.Doesn’t say a word. Just walks out again.
And I let him.
Now I’m here. It’s 10 p.m. The house is silent. Peaceful.
He hasn’t returned, and I’m waiting.
After reading, you might want to take a minute. Recognise the anger, sadness, maybe even the familiarity of that cognitive dissonance.
Sometimes, it helps having a few guiding questions to support you. These are some direct, in-the-moment journaling prompts to help bring out your raw, pulsing pain right after something bad happens. These focus on immediate expression, without requiring reflection or analysis.
〰️ What just happened? Describe it exactly as it was, without filtering anything.
〰️ What words were said? What tone was used?
〰️ Where are you right now? What do you see, hear, smell?
〰️ How does your body feel? Tight, heavy, numb? Where is the tension sitting?
〰️ What is the strongest feeling you have right now? Name and describe it without explaining why you feel that way.
〰️ If your pain had a voice, what would it say?
〰️ What do you need most in this moment?
〰️ What do you wish you could say out loud but can’t? Write it exactly as it comes.
〰️ If you weren’t trying to hold it together, what would you do right now? Cry? Scream? Run?
〰️ What part of this moment feels the worst?
〰️ What do you need to hear right now?
These prompts are designed to open the floodgates—to get the pain out instead of letting it loop in your mind. You can do any or as many of these questions as you wish. If at any point you feel overwhelmed, take a break. You can always come back to this exercise.
Disclaimer: I’m not a therapist. I’m just someone who’s lived through narcissistic abuse, made it out, and now wants to hold space for others walking a similar path. In the widest sense, I do this by putting words to what happened. My aim is never to diagnose or advise, but to encourage. Take what resonates, leave what doesn’t, and—above all— trust in yourself.
#2 TRAUMA-INFORMED STORYTELLING
Tell stories from the scars, not the wounds.
Rather than simply exposing pain, in trauma-informed storytelling, painful stories are told in a way that is safe for both the storyteller and the audience to avoid re-opening old wounds. Perspective, structure, symbolism, tone, and emotional intensity are used consciously to shape the emotional experience for the reader, choosing which aspects of the experience to highlight, which to leave out. You might want to consider:
Including trigger warnings—A brief notice if you’re writing about topics like abuse, violence, self-harm, or grief, or any content that might be overwhelming or unsettling (particularly for those who have experienced similar distressing events).
Changing names, locations, or even writing in the third person to create some emotional distance.
Fictionalising aspects of your experience can make it easier to process while still allowing you to express the truth of what you lived through.
Pacing to evoke emotion without inflicting harm. Don’t drop the reader into the most distressing part of the experience without first offering context.
Offering emotional anchors throughout—moments of relief, reflection, or even humour—to balance the intensity.
Providing closure. If you’re setting out to write about a deeply painful experience, be mindful not to leave your readers (—and yourself, of course) feeling raw, drained, or exposed. Offer the reader space to process. And equally, make sure you have done sufficient healing before sharing the details of a painful life episode.
It’s a lot to keep in mind, I know. But as writers, we hold great power. Here are 5 guiding principles to help you adapt your raw recounts into a trauma-informed story:3
Writing with, not from, the pain
A clear narrative structure
Show, don’t tell
Transformation
Connection over catharsis
I’ll discuss how these principles are applied. below.
Before I do that, here’s the rewritten version:
What he left outside
It started the way it always did.
Something small. A sigh. A glance. The slightest shift in his tone.
I could feel it happening—the space between us turning hostile, the air thickening, my body bracing before my mind even caught up.
I had promised myself I wouldn’t make him angry this time.
“I have more important things to do than listening to your nonsense. You’re wasting my time. Pesada.”
I knew the rules. Don’t react. Stay quiet. Take it in.
And I did.
I let the words settle inside me like stones in water, sinking deeper and deeper, until I started believing them.
Maybe I really was too much.
Maybe I could change. Shrink. Take up less space. Become someone easier to love. Someone he could love, fully, not just in the way that felt like tolerance.
“Aportas un 90% valor a mi vida.”
And the other 10%?
The part that was difficult. The part that cried too much. The part that wanted to be held instead of being told I was needy. The part of me that still, after everything, hoped to be seen.
I needed air.
I stepped outside, hands shaking as I pulled the wet clothes from the washing machine. The familiar rhythm—shake, clip, shake, clip.
Inside, I heard the front door open and shut.
I turned. He was in front of me, standing just behind the glass balcony door, and with a—click. He locked it.
I blinked. Did that just happen?
I tested the handle. Locked.
I knocked—once, then again, harder. He didn’t turn. Didn’t pause. Just kept walking down the hall. The front door slammed.
A rush of adrenaline surged through me, sharp and electric, but I didn’t move. My hands pressed against the cold glass, firm and real.
I took a breath and stepped back.
He really just did that.
Twenty minutes passed. Maybe longer. My arms covered in goosebumps. I couldn’t think.
And then—footsteps.
The front door swung open.
He walked in like nothing had happened, grinning like this was a joke only he understood.
Without a word, he turned the lock.
The balcony door creaked open.
And then—he left again.
I could have screamed, I could have thrown the empty laundry basket at his retreating back, I could have stormed out.
Instead, I stood there, unable to speak and unable to move, watching the door swing shut behind him once again.
I let him.
The house feels peaceful now, in the way abandoned things do.
Waiting for him to come home. Waiting for the door to open, for the sound of keys in the lock. Waiting for—
What?
The question startles me. Because I don’t actually know the answer.
Take a deep breath, make a cup of tea. When you’re ready, we’ll dive into the stylistic elements of this version.
Let’s see how I applied the principles of trauma-informed storytelling to rewrite this story:
1. Writing with, not from, the pain
In the journal version, the narrator is trapped inside her experience with no room to process the disbelief, silence, or helplessness. In comparison, in the trauma-informed version, there’s just enough emotional distance to allow reflection as the writer is starting to see it from the outside. This is how it’s applied:
Emotional distance through observation—The narrator shifts from immediate panic to noticing physical sensations: “My hands pressed against the cold glass, firm and real.” Instead of being fully overwhelmed, there’s a moment of grounding, reinforcing that they are starting to step outside of the moment.
Subtle reflection—The final sentence, “He really just did that,” signals the beginning of a perspective shift.
Space to process—The pacing is controlled. The panic is there (“A rush of adrenaline surges through me, sharp and electric”), but it doesn’t spiral. Instead, there’s a measured response—“I take a breath. Step back.”—which avoids overwhelming the reader while keeping the tension intact.
2. Clear narrative structure
A trauma-informed story follows a structure that guides the audience through the experience rather than overwhelming them with it. In its simplest form, this is a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Beginning—The story opens with a familiar pattern of tension and control, immediately setting up the emotional stakes. Instead of diving straight into the traumatic moment, it eases the reader in, showing the narrator’s internalised fear before the event escalates: “It started the way it always did. Something small. A sigh. A glance. The slightest shift in his tone.” The narrator’s thoughts (“I knew the rules. Don’t react. Stay quiet. Take it in.”) demonstrate the conditioning—how long-term abuse rewires responses to danger.
Middle—The inciting incident, the moment of being locked outside, is a turning point: “He was in front of me, standing just behind the glass balcony door, grinning. And with a—click. He locked it.” The pacing slows down, mirroring shock: “I blink. Did that just happen?” The fragmented structure makes the disbelief palpable.
End—Instead of an explicit resolution, the ending invites reflection: “Waiting for—What?”, and the suggestion that waiting on him might be pointless. The comment, “The house feels peaceful now, in the way abandoned things do.” links the end of the story to the emerging end of the relationship.
3. Show, don’t tell
Instead of telling the reader what happened, the writing immerses them in the experience—allowing them to connect, process, and interpret alongside the narrator.
Show emotion, tell feelings—Rather than stating emotions outright (“I was terrified”), immerse the reader in physical and psychological responses: “A rush of adrenaline surged through me, sharp and electric. My hands pressed against the glass—cold, firm, real.”The bodily reaction conveys fear without explicitly stating it.
Limit description to key moments—Avoid overwhelming the reader with relentless sensory details. Instead, pick moments where showing makes the most impact: “The front door slammed.” The short, stark sentences reflect the abruptness of control and isolation without excessive dramatisation.
4. Transformation
A trauma-informed story shifts the focus from what was done to the narrator to how they respond. It shows movement beyond victimhood, even if it’s small.
Subtle shift in power— Her considering to break free, makes her reclaim her power. I read this interesting figure today and it totally struck me. We try to leave a narcissist on average seven times before we make it. It took me exactly seven. Hence, a shift in power in an episode on narcissistic abuse wouldn’t make the protagonist pack and leave.
Detachment begins—The narrator isn’t fully free yet, but she’s starting to question why she’s in the relationship, realising she may be better off on her own. “The house feels peaceful now.”
Be careful with phrases like “In that moment, I realised…” Change isn’t immediate. Big moments tend to be catalysts for change instead. They’re that first domino in a cascade of other events before you realise the magnitude that first realisation or experience had in hindsight.
5. Connection over catharsis
While journaling is often cathartic, trauma-informed storytelling is crafted for an audience. Its purpose is to connect with the reader, offering them something that allows them to see themselves in your story.
Relatable inner conflict—Rather than just recounting the event, the narrator reveals the internal battle of rationalising mistreatment, something many readers may have experienced. “I knew the rules. Don’t react. Stay quiet. Take it in.”
This moment reflects the learned behaviour of survivors, allowing readers to recognise their own conditioning in the story.
Anchor personal experience in universal emotion—Even if the exact situation differs, the emotions—fear, self-doubt, longing—are deeply relatable: “Maybe I really was too much. Maybe I could change. Shrink. Take up less space. Become someone easier to love.” This inner dialogue mirrors the way many survivors rationalize mistreatment, making it resonate with a wider audience.
Writing about painful experiences can be both cathartic and deeply challenging. If you decide to draw inspiration from the emotional impact of a personal challenge, or when writing about distressing events, make sure to take good care of yourself. That includes, but is not limited to:
Regularly checking in with yourself. If reliving the experience feels overwhelming, pause. Shake, jump, stretch, take a long hot shower—do whatever helps you release the tension and get back into your body.
Writing in a safe space. Find a space you feel held and safe in. Maybe there’s a specific time you feel more emotionally stable throughout the day (for me, that used to be in the late afternoon, once the morning anxiety had passed, and I’d moved through the majority of my workday).
Choosing whom to share your writing with. Not every story needs an audience. Some episodes might feel too raw and intimate to share.
Giving yourself the choice of what to include, and what to leave out. No one is entitled to the full details of your pain. If something feels too fresh, too overwhelming, or simply unnecessary, set boundaries.
#3 SATIRE
Of the three approaches we’ve discussed, satire is the most crafted. Raw pain pours onto the page, trauma-informed storytelling shapes it, and satire sharpens it into something deliberately absurd. It’s edited, refined, twisted until it cuts in the right places—at the people, systems, or dynamics that deserve it.
The goal is critique, sometimes with an undercurrent of hope for change. In this specific setting, it’s not to dismiss pain, but to reframe it. Satire uses dark humour—laughing at pain, chaos, and suffering—but it also involves a push for change and empowerment.
Writing a satiric piece requires emotional distance. Give yourself time to let the shock wear off so you can truly transform the pain. I wrote this 3 years after the actual event.
Just another Saturday
You know a relationship has hit a low point when you find yourself barefoot on a balcony, surrounded by damp socks, wondering if five floors is a survivable jump.
But let’s rewind.
I had made a promise—to myself, and to the ghost of every past argument: Don’t make him angry.
But I had it coming for me when I asked, “Hey, can I talk to you about something?”
He sighed, burdened with the tragedy of my continued free will: “No seas pesada.”
Undeterred, I continued: “I just meant, earlier, when you—”
He cut me off with a dry chuckle. “Wow. You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
Lifted eyebrows, I paused. “I literally just—”
“—just needed to ruin my day.” He nodded to the imaginary audience of his one-man show. “Do you even hear yourself?”
I must admit, I’d been hearing myself less and less since the start of this relationship…
He was pacing now, chest puffed. “You know what your problem is?”
I couldn’t wait for him to mansplain what had made today’s shortlist. Equally, I had several guesses myself:
Is it that my panties didn’t magically drop every time I had to boost his floppy ego?
That I wasn’t wearing my “supportive robot” costume today, all buttoned up the back with a big MAN-ual zip across my mouth?Or that I’m not his fantasy blow-up fiancé, lighting his cigarette, drying his tears, and spoonfeeding him dinner, all the while doing the mental gymnastics he seems to think I’m here for?
His answer was disappointingly simple.
“You love drama. No tienes nada mejor que hacer.”
Wow. That was a projection, if I’ve ever seen one. Sure it’s me thriving on unnecessary conflict?
Still, he shook his head in staged disbelief. “I mean, listen to yourself. You just can’t stop fixating on pointless crap. I’ve got more important things to do. Me estás quitando tiempo.”
This time, the dry chuckle was mine. “You—”
“You what?” He crossed his arms. “Go on. Let’s hear it. Let’s hear your victim monologue.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
This felt familiar. What was the script again? Right, I would elaborate a carefully structured argument, he’d interrupt before I could even finish my first sentence, then declare himself the real victim, and somehow make me apologise for my feelings.
Yeah. No.
From the balcony, a tinny melody shattered the silence. The washing machine had finished.
Perfect timing. At least something around here knew when to stop.
I took it as my invitation to follow her lead, and stepped onto the balcony, letting the door swing shut behind me.
I grabbed the wet laundry, piece by piece.
Shake, clip. I’m fine.
Shake, clip. I’m fine.
Shake, —
Click.
I turned.
He had appeared on the other side of the balcony door, his face stretched into a smug, self-satisfied grin.
I tried the handle. Locked.
My lips silently mouthed a what the fuck as our eyes locked. Then he turned and walked down the hallway, completely unbothered.
Why are women so hysterical?
The front door thudded shut.
So, there I was, barefoot on my balcony, contemplating my options.
1. Shout for help. Useless. I once called the police about a woman screaming across the courtyard. When they finally arrived an hour later, there was nothing left to hear.
2. Let my hair down? Right. Not Rapunzel. And even if I were, well—story has it this only works for men to climb in, not for women to get out.
3. Hand over my fate and wait.
In the consoling company of our wet laundry, I began contemplating my life choices.
Clearly, this relationship wasn’t a very good one. So much so that right now, I was completely at the mercy of a man who thrived on mind games, power and control.
This wasn’t the life I had envisioned for myself.
How the hell did I up here?
And how the hell do I get out?
Just as I turned over that last thought, I heard the front door unlocking.
A sigh escaped my tightened chest, breath still shallow. I couldn’t tell if it was relief or a new wave of panic.
Not that it mattered.
He left as soon as he’d unlocked the balcony door.
For me, that was the weekly reminder I wasn’t actually safe.
For him, it was just another Saturday.
Just Another Saturday uses satire to expose power dynamics and amplify the voice of the disempowered. Here’s how:
1. Exaggeration & Absurdity
Satire is about exposing contradictions—showing hypocrisy, flaws, and absurdities so clearly that they collapse under their own weight. The key is not to tell the reader what’s wrong, but to let the situation speak for itself.
How to do this in your writing:
Let them say one thing, then immediately do the opposite—If someone mistreated you but justified it, write their words first, then immediately follow with their contradicting action—but let the reader connect the dots. He sighs that he “has no time for this,” yet makes time for a power play.
Amplify their logic until it becomes ridiculous—Satire often exposes real problems by taking them one step further. He insists she loves drama—while escalating the situation into a full-blown production, complete with a locked balcony and imaginary courtroom.
Describe their actions with complete sincerity—The more straight-faced the delivery, the sharper the satire. Instead of saying “he was being dramatic,” simply describe his behaviour as if it were normal—this highlights the absurdity without over-explaining.
2. Lean into the archetypes
Satire thrives on recognisable patterns of behaviour—traits that exist in the real world but are dialled up just enough to be unmistakable. The goal isn’t to create over-the-top caricatures, but to make real dynamics obvious.
Make their tactics unfold in real time—Instead of saying “he gaslit her,” show it happening. His weaponised exhaustion—“Do you even hear yourself?”—frames her as unreasonable for daring to question him.
Amplify a recognisable pattern—Gaslighting, victim-playing, a narcissist who reshapes reality to make it fit their narrative: “You just needed to ruin my day.” (Now, she’s actively attacking him.), and “Do you even hear yourself?” (Her perspective is irrational.) By the time he delivers “Let’s hear your victim monologue,” he’s successfully cast himself as the suffering, innocent party.
3. Play, tone & delivery
Satire is funny, but uncomfortable. The humour doesn’t come from lighthearted jokes—it comes from the truth being laid bare in a way that makes the reader squirm. Still, that laughter serves as a short relief from the emotional discomfort the reader feels, and helps them bond with the writer.
Deadpan—describe the worst moments with complete indifference, like they’re normal. This makes the reader pause, and realise just how not normal they are. “This felt familiar. What was the script again? Right, I would elaborate a carefully structured argument, he’d interrupt before I could even finish my first sentence, then declare himself the real victim, and somehow make me apologise for my feelings.” The contrast between her calmly recalling each step and the absurdity of the dynamic makes it land.
Juxtaposition—Placing two contrasting elements side by side to highlight their differences. “For me, that was the weekly reminder I wasn’t actually safe.” [distress, anxiety, emotional trauma] vs. “For him, it was just another Saturday.” [detachment, manipualtion, normalcy]. The contrast between her visceral distress and his seeming calm makes the reader feel the dissonance without needing to explain it.
Ironic Echo—The line “Why are women so hysterical?” isn’t the narrator’s actual belief — it’s a mocking echo of the way women are often dismissed, especially in abusive or manipulative dynamics. By placing it after a disturbing moment — he locks her in, meets her eyes, and walks away without a word — the absurdity of that stereotype is exposed. The line is used ironically to highlight the gaslighting and minimisation often faced by women in these situations.
Exaggeration—“So, there I was, barefoot on my balcony, contemplating my options.” Using increasingly absurd options (shouting for help, letting her hair down like Rapunzel, surrendering to fate) highlights the narrrator’s powerlessness and lack of real choices, all while maintaining a dry, observational tone.
The slow burn (tension & pacing)—Snappy dialogue and interior monologue keep things moving despite the story’s emotional weight. The short, clipped lines “Shake, clip. I’m fine. Shake, —Click.” and the deliberate pauses add to the tension and comedic timing.
Satire lets you drag parts of your story into absurdity — without downplaying what happened. The key is, this time, you choose how to reframe it. You get to shape the meaning for yourself.
For me, there’s a certain satisfaction in knowing that the very person who tried to crush my creativity and self-worth now fuels it.
Thanks for the pain.
It wasn’t all in vain.
(Which isn’t to say I appreciate the behaviour—not even close. This is just my personal silver lining.)
Transformation takes time, though. Right after such an event, it’s not about making it funny. Only when you’re ready can you move from writing to get the pain out to using the pain to fuel your writing.
Marsh LC, Apšvalka D, Kikuchi H, et al. Prefrontally mediated inhibition of memory systems in dissociative amnesia. Psychological Medicine. 2024;54(16):4779-4787. doi:10.1017/S0033291724003040 [https://doi.org/10.1017/S0033291724003040].
Fung HW, Chien WT, Chan C, Ross CA. A Cross-Cultural Investigation of the Association between Betrayal Trauma and Dissociative Features. J Interpers Violence. 2023 Jan;38(1-2):NP1630-NP1653. doi: 10.1177/08862605221090568. Epub 2022 Apr 25. PMID: 35467456. [https://doi.org/10.1177/08862605221090568].
You can find a more comprehensive resource on trauma-informed storytelling here: https://voiceofwitness.org/resources/trauma-informed-storytelling-practices/