If you've ever gone to therapy, perhaps you know: there are two main post-session feelings.

The first is ghostlike (which can range anywhere from ‘distracted’ to ‘dissociative’) and is generally not a fun feeling. The other is cathartic, lighter-but-not-floating-away, a burden shared is a burden halved, etc. etc.

That’s not to say I have extensive experience with therapy — minimal at best, really — but I’m guilty of occasionally treating friends as therapists or venting online, or just plain ol’ getting stuck in my head. I’m not a unique human being; I don’t own nostalgia and I don’t have a monopoly on memories.

Bad days aside, there are situations that conjure the past, some you can’t avoid, and some you might not particularly want to run from. There’s therapy, of course, whose job it is to drag demons into the light and beat black and blue. There’s reconnecting with someone from your past which, while not as direct (sometimes only tangentially) can fire up that strange crystal ball knows as the “back of your mind.” There’s also the case of growing intimacy, perhaps the most positive of these circumstances, that point at which forthrightness becomes commonplace and a couple of people willingly offer the information they keep close to their hearts.

At the moment, I’m in a personal essay workshop, which is a strange environment. We’re all thinking of our pasts but nobody’s really here to help anyone else out, and we’ve been advised not to write about any theme that’s too heavy since it gets awkward trying to critique someone’s personal story about death with that person in the room. Nevertheless, you can’t think of your past in censorship. Whether your write about the serious things or not, they still happened, they’re still mixed in with the other memories.

There are, according to my professor, some tricks of the trade, ways to keep your dignity intact while also being honest.

Do not claim victim status in retelling.

If you write/tell a story fueled by a woe-is-me attitude, nobody is going to want to hear it. The plain and simple of it is that, unless you’re talking to your therapist or someone else you pay to be supportive, you’ll have just emptied your heart to a person who will offer you little more than pity. Don’t get me wrong, if you were the victim, don’t deny it, but don’t emphasize it or focus on it more than you have to in order to get the story out. The way we tell stories is the way we end up remembering the actual events. Be careful you don’t end up collecting nothing more than pity from yourself.

Do not surrender your autonomy.

This is closely tied to the previous one, maybe even an elaboration. You made choices. Unless someone was holding a gun to your head…even then, you make a choice. Don’t spin yourself as a passive narrator in your own story. You’re a character too. Sure things happen to you, but you react to them, you make decisions for yourself.

Remember good memories.

Even in a sad story, there’s a balance to be reached. Don’t let your mind go too far in any one direction. For writers, even if you don’t end up writing this entire balance down (as it might not go with the larger tone), be sure to make note of it.

Keep track of your motivation…as well as everyone else’s motivations.

Reflection is a good way to understand why things happened the way they did, but not if you’re just reliving what you felt in the moment. Make sure you know what you’re trying to say with this story, what’s important, what you want to know or share through the process.

This sounds slightly like “get over it and accept responsibility,” but that couldn’t be further from what I mean. Responsibility belongs with those at fault, and you shouldn’t excuse someone who hurt you just because they’re human. These are simply story-telling strategies that keep things in perspective, minimize that sense of being lost and helpless, and give you some breathing room. The past isn’t something you should feel afraid of or like you need to repress, but reminiscing is a skill not often taught.