Let me be straight with you.  I am not writing my next book as an expert on psychology and inner harmony.  Nor am I offering astute advice due to a monumental moment from a mystical expert or a wild woman archetype I had met from my exotic travels.  I do believe in ancient healing traditions and connecting with nature and creation.  Yes, I have taken pilgrimages to sacred sites as an intrinsic awakening and invigorating jolt to my soul.  However, my verbal vomit on the pages ahead come from a deeper place.

My influence and insight come from daily self-analyzation.  Throughout researching and studying intergenerational identity and childhood trauma, I can confess it is not for the weak of heart. The truth is trauma lurks in everyone.  For me, trauma is strangely selfish, although it has taught me plenty.  Living with my trauma has been a complicated progression—a journey of self-discovery that never ceases to amaze yet aggravate me.

I have read books about reclaiming your power and finding your purpose.  The emotional and social intelligence informed books stacked in my babe cave are endless.  I carry paper, and black uni-ball gel pen’s everywhere.  I have unlimited flecked black and white composition books filled with garbled thoughts and ideas.  I pity anyone who attempts to organize the information zig-zagging on the linear coffee-stained pages. Nobody listens nor should they to the theories I have about everything. I feel I have the ability to see all sides of every issue, which often gets me into sticky situations.

From my point of view, the answer to every question is “it depends,” and context matters.  I have complex and changing ideas about everything and everyone all the time.  I critique everything, and I have been told that my expectations are higher than Mt. Everest.  I am paranoid about wasting time. I follow my husband around the house turning off the lights he left on, both of those glitches come from my mother.  My naughty and playful side originates from my father.

I am a recovering academic living a creative life on my terms.  I rather take handfuls of vitamins than exercise.  When I travel, I miss my body pillow named Phil. Is that odd?  What do I make of being a poster child for not letting things go?  “I hold grudges,” or I just saw who you really are which can’t be unseen.” Is it weird to say I remember almost every argument I’ve ever had with someone who has intentionally attacked my character?  When people meet me, they don’t identify with me as neurotic or restless.  They think I am chill, calm, then sassy. 

I wake up with curiosity and go to bed wanting more from life.  I constantly experience an overwhelming rush of thoughts and emotions but have learned to keep them to myself.  I can be intense and govern myself as a way of improving myself.  My discipline can be disturbing.  I have addictions to black coffee and diet coke with crushed ice. Wine at night, absolutely – red or white.  I lose my battle with insomnia nightly unless I take melatonin and magnesium.

My own experience with trauma and defining myself seems normal. My great-grandmother, Alvina, had two mental breakdowns and appeared stable. I have been told over the years people politely fall apart at some point in their lives. How each of us regroups and moves on determines the type of lives we want to live, is what I have decided.  For ten years, I worked as a patient care volunteer with Hospice.  Death still jolts me.

I address you as a woman who has spent plenty of time talking herself and others off emotional ledges. I like to talk about evolutionary biology, epigenetics, and molecular collisions.  I am a member of the cloud appreciation society.  The pinpricks of light in the sky we call stars make me beam.  Neuroscience fascinates me. Low tide beach runs and walks cure my apprehension about life.  I wish we could reshuffle events in time and determine the consequence of our actions before they occur.  Often wondering if it would change our decisions knowing outcomes?  I do have the ability to coexist with things I cannot accept, which tend to be undesirable dimensions of people’s behavior.  I yearn for tranquility.  I have a hard time relaxing, another trait from my mother.  I delight in my attempts to understand the emotions and experiences as a young girl and now as an adult woman by comparing and contrasting their relational effects.

I am always looking to improve myself.  The potential problems I have, my girlfriends often struggle with too.  I want to shout from the hilltops that self-doubt is normal. Confusion can be chaotic but keeps me awake to anguish, which is part of the normalcy in this wacky world.  Over time, having a high tolerance for discomfort helps me see the world as broken but beautiful.  I believe my esoteric thoughts continue to be corrected by a life that allows me to emerge shrewder, kinder, and more resilient.  And after my creative editor color coats each sentence I type, breaking down my scribbling into paltry pieces of rubbish, I rebuild sentences stronger.  I am grateful for her ability to edit my existence.  She is my Frankenbrain.  My strength in sharing my storylines comes from being a survivor and not having support early on, but now years later, I remain determined to heal.  I have validated my own experiences and emotions to make peace within.  My inner knowing has kept reminding me I need help, and I finally sought that out over time.  I have given myself permission this time around to not be a speed demon and allow myself to enjoy the writing process with this project.  I am attempting to consider my new mantra – slow and steady wins the race !