On Writing

 

I’ll be blunt: some days I feel like a deflated balloon—flat, sighing, and so ready to burst back into tears. That cocktail of mental health hell and alcohol addiction? It was my daily hangover, even before I’d taken a swig. But then there was writing. Writing has been my life raft, my defiant middle finger to chaos. When I found the article from West Coast Recovery Centers titled *“Creative Writing Reduces Stress and Improves Mental Health”*, I didn’t just read it—I felt seen. Like someone had crawled inside my skull and taken notes. The article explains, “Creative writing can reduce mood swings and other side effects of substance use disorder by supporting healthy self-reflection and mindfulness.” And they’re not fluffing it up with vague affirmations or woo-woo nonsense. They back it up with real studies, like one from the *Substance Use and Addiction Journal*, which reports that expressive writing “resulted in significant reductions in distress, and improved psychological and physical health.”

That hit home. Because writing isn’t just some artsy-fartsy indulgence for me—it’s been a scalpel and a salve. My pen slices open the wound and stitches it shut in the same damn stroke. I’ve dumped thousands of words onto the page every day for years now. Doesn’t matter the weather, doesn’t matter my mood. I could be spiraling from depression or staring down a craving that feels like it might rip my skin off—I write anyway. It’s not always pretty. In fact, it’s rarely pretty. Some of it reads like the unedited mutterings of a man unraveling, which, to be fair, it is. But over time, those mutterings found structure, and eventually, they started turning into actual books. Six novels and a handful of novellas have clawed their way out of my head and onto the page—*Demons Within*, *The Dish Pit*, *Cocaine-Cola*, etc…and a few others that are shorter but still sting with truth.

I write fiction, but I don’t lie. Not really. The characters might have different names or better jawlines, but they bleed my blood and carry my fears. The article nailed it: “Creative writing allows people to use fictional scenarios to work through real and complex emotions.” That’s exactly what I do. I write to rewrite. I take the mess, the trauma, the regret, and I run it through the typewriter until something else comes out—something I can live with. Something I can learn from, or at least laugh at.

Humor, by the way, is essential. If I couldn’t laugh at the absurdity of my own mind, I’d have driven myself into a wall years ago. There are entire chapters I’ve written that could double as stand-up routines performed in purgatory. But beneath the dark humor is real healing. This isn’t performative. I’m not writing for likes or accolades (though I won’t pretend it doesn’t feel nice). I’m writing because it keeps me alive. It distracts me from the cravings, and it helps me process the ugliness I used to drown in.

The article touches on that, too. It says writing can “distract from cravings and other symptoms of SUD,” and create “a sense of accomplishment.” That last part is gold. Because when you’re clawing your way out of addiction or mental illness, the little wins matter. Sometimes the only thing I’ve done all day is write 1,500 words about a guy losing his mind in a dish pir—but dammit, that’s something. That’s proof I showed up, that I’m still in the ring. And every word I type is one more brick in the house I’m building out of the wreckage.

Structure matters, too. In recovery, I learned that discipline doesn’t just mean saying “no” to the bottle—it means saying “yes” to routine, to purpose, to creative rituals. Sitting down to write every day is my act of rebellion against chaos. It’s flossing for the soul. It keeps the rot from setting in. I don’t wait for inspiration. I don’t need a candlelit desk or some ethereal muse whispering into my ear. I just need my keyboard, some black coffee, and the willingness to go toe-to-toe with whatever beast crawled into my brain that morning.

And let’s not underestimate the power of sharing this stuff. The article says it best: “Sharing stories is a community activity and fosters a sense of fellowship and social understanding.” It’s terrifying at first. When I started letting others read my work—especially the stuff that dug deep into my darker corners—I felt like I was walking around naked in a crowded room. But then someone would nod, or tear up, or say, “Man, I felt that.” And just like that, the shame shrank. The loneliness cracked open. Writing became not just a lifeline, but a bridge.

So yeah, I write fiction, but every word is true. I write through panic attacks, depressive spirals, urges, anniversaries of loss. I’ve written while hungover, freshly sober, and everything in between. Sometimes the words save me. Sometimes they just distract me long enough to survive the next ten minutes. But either way, I keep going. Because I’ve seen what happens when I stop—and I’m not going back there.

If you’re in the pit, or perched on its edge, I’m telling you now: tell your story. You don’t have to be a novelist. You don’t have to be good. You just have to be honest. Open a notebook. Type into your phone. Scribble on a napkin. Invent a character that’s just a braver version of yourself. Whatever it takes. You might find a door where you thought there was only a wall. You might even find yourself.

And if you want to read the article that reminded me why I keep doing this—why I *have* to do this—here it is:

[https://westcoastrecoverycenters.com/blog/creative-writing-reduces-stress-and-improves-mental-health/](https://westcoastrecoverycenters.com/blog/creative-writing-reduces-stress-and-improves-mental-health/)

Here’s to turning pain into prose. Here’s to showing up. And here’s to the weird, wild magic of writing your way out of the dark.