Articles I could never imagine that a course of narrative therapy could be so, let’s say, therapeutical. Having finished the Narrative Rio I course, I drove home in a state close to exhilaration. Not only was I fascinated by the clarity, didactics and generosity of the Australian lecturer Shona Russel, I also felt as if my mind was in the middle of a spinning session, literally . During the course we had had really inspiring relaxation breaks, conducted by Diogo, a yoga teacher, a figure whose presence exuded peace and serenity - on our last session, he had nearly made us levitate to the sound of his sitar- but now I just couldn’t ease my mind, it was definitely not in the mood for soothing mantras, it felt more like some energetic exercise like wall climbing or running a marathon.

Somehow all that excitement made me go back in time, to an office in Gavea - in the south part of Rio - to a big, comfortable, quiet house. A welcoming place.

The room where I found myself in was quite pleasant, decorated with fine furniture, a few books in sight and a coach with a hard back. That was exactly what I needed, in those days of tendinitis and back ache, a sofa with a hard back, which, in contact with my aching body, might feel real hot every time I left the room.

It was my first experience with therapy, and I thank my physiotherapist for convincing me to go; my sore shoulders and neck needed a different kind of relief.

It took me some time to be able to utter a word. First I had to cry. Then sweat as if I were under the sultry Sahara sun. Then I sometimes managed to mumble a few sentences, most of which began with ‘I can’t’. I can’t do this, I can’t do that, I can’t definitely do anything.

One day, Lucia, my therapist, the same person who would later invite me to do the course on narrative therapy, asked me calmly but sternly,’ And what can you do?’

The neat room was suddenly upside-down. I felt as if the floor had been swept off my feet, and my body thrown up in the air, whirling, and spinning, falling head first. Stunned by the blunt question, I was forced to think about what I could definitely do. Turning point! Never had I felt the back of that seat so hot. Staring at the therapist I answered, ‘write’. I can write. Yes, that’s it, I can do that. I can write!

It was as if that moment had been printed on my aching bones, on my sore muscles. From that day on, every time I left Lucia’s office I felt all my pains melting away on the driving wheel. I was driving towards that six-year-old girl, who having learnt to write, started writing books at home and entered poetry festivals, and who would eventually choose journalism as a career, because, after all, how dare someone to become a writer?

A few years later, when going to the sessions had become a pleasure rather than a pain, I was invited to write a book inspired in the life of Ana Karina, one of Lucia’s patients. “After writing this book, you won’t need therapy anymore”, said Lucia playfully, telling me, in the same manner, that writing that story would not be a piece of cake.

An ex-drug addict, Ana would not be an easy character to develop. But I decided to take the challenge. Remember, I could do a lot of things now.

For almost a year, Ana and I met for interviews on a regular basis. In the beginning I felt really uncomfortable.

Imagine me - someone with a shy and reserved nature, who flushes whenever it is necessary to speak in public- in a room for an interview with a rebellious youth and her 14 tattoos. To make matters worse, I knew nothing about drugs or substance abuse (I couldn’t tell the difference between ecstasy and acid).

Little by little, however, the atmosphere became more comfortable. Eventually, in the Narrative Course, doing one of the exercises, I realized why my interviews with Ana had become so fruitful. Together with one of the psychologists in the course (I was the only journalist, a real fish out of water) we came to two keywords: empathy and trust.

A statement, either in a therapeutic or journalistic context, can only be truthful if the relationship between the interviewer and the interviewee is built on mutual confidence. And there can be no confidence without empathy. When we manage to succeed in the effort to put ourselves in somebody else’s shoes, when we give up our ego, our concepts, our mental tattoos, our mental stamps, then the real love-bound empathy is born.

Contardo Calligaris, a psychoanalyst whose work was mentioned in the course, once said in an interview to a woman’s magazine, ‘Love is the greatest agent of transformation, in every sense of the word. Changes in childhood in some way happen due to the love for our parents; if transformation happens during therapy, it is transference love for the therapist; if one changes as a result of a friendship, it is because of the love for the friend. Love is the greatest factor of transformation.’

I truly believe that if Ana went through some sort of transformation while she was recounting her story, it happened because somehow ours was a love-bound relationship.

I had decided to dive deep into the project and, when I did so, I gave up all my pride. I soon realized that in order not to interfere with the flow of her memories I should interrupt the least possible. As I was not interested in the chronology of the facts, which may sometimes be confused in the mind of someone who had been on drugs for so long, I focused on feelings and on how facts generated emotions that generated valuable reflections in the sequence. So, most of the time, I just turned the recorder on, and sat there, taking a few notes, silently. I was all ears, literally.

Sometimes I wondered what sort of journalist she might think I was. A jerk unable to make comments or even take notes in a stupid pad? But I had been indicated by Lucia, and that, together with a bit of luck, might work in my favor. It did. Little by little I gained her confidence. And when she told me about the death of her mother, and we cried together, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Thank God you’re gonna write about this with your heart.’

In fact when I wrote the chapter about the death of her mother, I cried like a child. And I cried again when I read it out loud for her. At this point she knew I was not a statue.

“I like it. We want to publish it”, said my editor, making me think that life is beautiful. He had read the originals and decided to publish Ana’s story. I felt my blood speeding in my veins. In my yoga classes I always try the shirsh asana, the pose you stand on your head. I haven’t succeeded yet. But I’m sure I know the feeling it brings. Sheer joy.

In the launching party of our book it was wonderful to see Ana. She was happy, proud and somehow transformed. There she was starting anew. A new life with no misunderstandings or accusations, with no regrets and blame free. A lighter life, just like my shoulders feel today.

I really would like to have told all this to my peers in the narrative course, if my cold sweats and palpitations had allowed me.

As I listened to Lucia telling about the story of the book, my face reddened. I overheard someone saying about me, ‘Gosh, look at her face, it is going purple!’

Later, my husband and I had a good laughter, when I told him about it.

Well, nobody is perfect. And acknowledging that was part of my healing process, I could say.

It had been bold enough of me to take part in the same course as my husband’s and my own therapists (what a shame, dear God!); it would have been too much to hold the microphone and speak as if it was that simple.

But it was in that course that I learnt to make room in my beliefs for the different, to put myself in different places, to sit my soul on different chairs, different sofas.

Jose Castello, a journalist I admire immensely, says, ‘To write well is not about getting it right straight away, but making good mistakes’. Life is like that. We are always writing a draft, editing, re-writing; the final text will only be ready when we, writers, meet the deadline.

In the meantime, I cherish the sympathy of those who care. Like one of the psychologists in the course who, sympathizing with my ‘purpleness’ on the last day, said, running her fingers through my face, ‘You know what, Carla? Carlos Drummond de Andrade was also very shy.’ Amen.

* Carlos Drummond de Andrade- a famous Brazilian poet

Carla Mühlhaus is a journalist and a writer. Her book The puppy’s pretty girl (Ediouro) - a biography of Ana Karina de Montreuil was launched this year.. To get acquainted with her work, access www.acasadomoinho.com