Narrative and The Expressive Arts

In hindsight, the expressive arts endeavor is a prominent reminder of our plight to make meaning through narrative, and these cognitive processes lend themselves to interpretation through the theoretical lens of interpersonal neurobiology. Save for reflecting the sociocultural milieus and encompassing blueprints for behavior, identity, and theoretical knowledge in all known cultures, narrative probably emerged, in part, as a mechanism of neural integration and coordination between the dominant and nondominant hemispheres of the brain (Cozolino, 2010). If this is indeed true, then a multilevel function of personal narrative is to facilitate neural connectivity in the brain, emotional stability, psychological flexibility, and physical health. Dan Siegel, the child psychiatrist, has much to say about this curious phenomenon; the integrative neural processes occurring during formative periods of development can be vertical, dorsoventral, or interhemispheric (Siegel, 2012). The importance of the latter, according to Colwyn Trevarthen, cannot be overstated, because the anterior commissures and corpus callosum combined is “the only pathway through which the higher functions of perception and cognition, learning and voluntary motor coordination can be unified” (Siegel, 2012, p. 341). Associational neurons in the frontal, temporal, and parietal lobes are the modus operandi, linking intricate representational processes of the hemispheres together (Cozolino, 2010).

On a similar note, the existing consensus among neuroscientists is that the corpus callosum, the bundle of nerve fibers interconnecting and coordinating the two hemispheres, doesn’t reach full maturity until the early teenage years (Galin, Johnstone, Nakell, & Herron, 1979). Concerning the importance of narrative in interhemispheric coordination, scientific treatises activate only the digital temporal processes of the dominant left hemisphere, whereas the combined visual imagery and linear storyline couched within real stories and fictional tales activate both the aforementioned and the holistic analogic processes of the non-dominant right hemisphere (Siegel, 2012). In light of this interdisciplinary schema, it appears that our genetic and neurological makeup both come with in-built “attractions” for higher-order activities (e.g., reading and listening to stories or creating them) that are able to activate and hence integrate cortical and subcortical processing systems, the hippocampus and amygdala, and specific regions of the frontal lobes (Rossi, 1993). Moreover, creative storytelling stimulates denser connectivity between the language centers; the neural networks dedicated to memory, visceral, and emotional processing; and conscious awareness (Cozolino, 2010). Although they are unconscious or "nonconscious", there is a reason why we recourse to them when we are suffering from self-perpetuated patterns of depression, anxiety, or over-emotionality, or a sense of emptiness, meaninglessness, and languishing in our lives. From a neurological lens, then, one's proto-scientific attempts at ordering chaos by contrasting and comparing the quality of their inner mental life with that of another human being reflect that striving for psycho-neural integration.

People are far more likely to dabble with the creative arts when their narratives suffer fragmentation and life becomes increasingly meaningless and unpredictable. These states often lend themselves to an existential conceptualization, given that they spur radical life crises and transitions predicated upon especially salient encounters with the four fundamental givens of existence—death, isolation, meaninglessness, and freedom (Yalom & Leszcz, 2005). For me, grappling with an illness of unknown etiology at an early age and attempting to connect the dots on issues of symptomology was paradigmatic of nascent reality testing; however, the constricted frame of reference I married and adhered to like gospel created a closed appraisal system that disregarded disconfirming evidence, permitting the perseveration of insidious beliefs for more than ten years. During that inordinate period, there was a prodigious somatization of an internal conflict (tiredness, hypertension, problems with visual acuity) generated by the dialectical tension between a socially mediated expectation that fulfillment awaited at the end of each phase of human development on one side, and a dysphoric disruption in the socio-cultural system of meaning upon which everyone depends for effective self-regulation on the other (Ingram, 2012).

This crisis of meaning precipitated an internal existential discussion between different aspects of self throughout my teenage years. There was a sense of disconnection from consensus reality as I grappled with the “absurd;” there was an encumbering of the self-actualization process instigated by morbid fixation on and “neurotic” anxiety about my impending death; there was a perceived separateness and lack of deep empathic attunement stemming from my unique situation; and there was the self-sacrifice of vitality and authenticity for a blunted, mundane routine of boredom, stagnation, and neglect of creative potential. Put differently, I was preoccupied, emotionally unavailable, guarded, closed off, contrived, disingenuous, lifeless, unaware of my true desires, and unreceptive to change. Incompetence to problem-solve creatively and work through the impasse manifested through the unconscious as a recurring dream of rotting cadavers and skeletons beneath my room. I bore witness to this dream for many years. Moreover, the choice to suffer and endure the grief cycle in silence, and the consequent dearth of social support, only exacerbated the dysphoria, the generalized anxiety, and the physical symptoms. Before any revelatory eureka moment could come, I was without a doubt the sole author of my own self-sabotaging, delusional narrative. My chief coping mechanisms during this time were flow experiences attained via engagement in the performing and expressive arts.

There is also a transpersonal dimension to the connection between expressive creative arts and illness; polymorphous conditions generally unleashed intense periods of self-absorption, self-reflection, and creative writing. Creative illnesses transcend sociopolitical and religious frontiers and are actually quite common across cultures and epochs. These phenomena seem to be especially prevalent among shamans, philosophers, and writers (Ellenberger, 1970). After an unusual neurosis that lasted between 1894 and 1900, Sigmund Freud emerged into the intellectual and scientific world with an inspired perspective on unconscious life, enabling him to write his celebrated The Interpretation of Dreams (Ellenberger, 1970). Similarly, Carl Jung underwent a creative illness between 1913 and 1919 that motivated esoteric works like The Red Book, The Black Book, and Seven Sermons to the Dead and laid the humus for the sprouting of theories surrounding archetypes, the collective unconscious, and the actualized self (Ellenberger, 1970). I too have spent a great deal of time deeply preoccupied with the mysteries of the human soul, and have emerged from my ordeals in an exhilarated state. The first of these culminated with a three-week period of incessant writing where I transcribed my screaming shadow self onto paper. Most of the poems written during my own “creative illness” were published in Fifty Confessions (2009), probably my most personal collection of poetry to date. More recently, a very subtle depreciation in the quality of my memory (increased forgetfulness) generated a prodigious Precambrian mental explosion, a kind that mimicked the mythical emergence of the laughter-loving Aphrodite from the frothy Cyprian Sea and generated all the illustrations and dialogues in Confessions of a Split Mind.

Looking back on the nexus of these experiences, I realize that the waxing of creative activity is directly correlated to frenetic and ebullient emotions. When somebody writes (creative writing, poetry, etc.), they are consciously exerting control over a phenomenal process and sublimating irritability, fear, rage, and other negative emotions into something more manageable and tolerable (Forgeard, Mecklenburg, Lacasse, & Jayawickreme, 2014). Requiring concentration and focal attention, the task distracts the individual’s passive rumination and burgeons positive emotion (Forgeard et al., 2014). Writing may also be construed as an opportunity to find meaning in disquieting events, a chance to make sense out of nonsense. Every individual has their own way of accomplishing this feat.

I, for instance, do it by mythologizing and even exaggerating my pathos; in many of my writings, these emotionally salient life events are described in the context of the Jungian Great Mother and son lover archetypal pairing, or exalted through Gnostic notions of a soul-spark rediscovering its divine origins through the trials and tribulations of a life-threatening ailment. In writing about the illness I endured, the most traumatic event in my life, I concluded that physicians, neurologists, immunologists, and psychiatrists couldn’t shed any light upon it because it was supernatural in origin, imposed by a higher order of spiritual beings as a way of instigating inner transformation and placing me on a hitherto unknown spiritual path. To overcome and gain mastery over any condition, one must be able to shift perspectives and restructure cognitions into meaningful narratives in ways that are personally salient and cogent and that illuminate the self in the best possible light. Going through this “basic, adaptive psychological process which is also observed in artistic and scientific creativity” (Williams, 2012, p. 113) allows the ailing individual to transcend his or her existential impasse by moving through the paradigm-shifting phase of illumination (the interjection of novel ideas and solutions into conscious awareness) and continue navigating through the world. That’s the secret of posttraumatic growth; that’s what heals.

References

Cozolino, L. (2010). The Neuroscience of psychotherapy: Healing the social brain (Norton Series on Interpersonal Neurobiology). New York, NY: WW Norton & Company.

Ellenberger, H. F. (1970). The history of the unconscious: The history and evolution of dynamic psychiatry. New York, NY: Basic Books.

Forgeard, M. C., Mecklenburg, A. C., Lacasse, J. J., & Jayawickreme, E. (2014). Bringing the whole universe to order: Creativity, healing, and posttraumatic growth. In J. C. Kaufman (Ed.), Creativity and mental illness (pp. 321–342). Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press.

Galin, D., Johnstone, J., Nakell, L., & Herron, J. (1979). Development of the capacity for tactile information transfer between hemispheres in normal children. Science, 204(4399), 1330–1332.

Ingram, B. L. (2011). Clinical case formulations: Matching the integrative treatment plan to the client. Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons.

Kiritsis, P. (2009). Fifty confessions. New York, NY: iUniverse.

Rossi, E. L. (1993). The psychobiology of mind-body healing: New concepts of therapeutic hypnosis. New York, NY: WW Norton & Company.

Siegel, D. J. (2012). The developing mind: How relationships and the brain interact to shape who we are. New York, NY: Guilford Press.

Williams, P. (2014). Rethinking madness: Towards a paradigm shift in our understanding and treatment of psychosis. San Raphael, CA: Sky’s Edge Publishing.

Yalom, I. D., & Leszcz, M. (2005). Theory and practice of group psychotherapy. New York, NY: Basic Books.