It’s a reality that this blog has drawn people to me, but it has also pushed others away. I realize that the “me” revealed in these posts isn't always the “me” that is seen across a table at Starbucks, at a family meal or on a night out with the girls. I know that some former friends can’t deal with the more complicated “me” they meet on this blog. I can’t help that. It’s unfortunate that sadness drives me here much more than celebration does. So from that a reader may conclude that I am sad much more of the time then I am happy. But emotions are not stable, I am often undisturbed by my internal troubles and I am often a fully functional member of society.
From the time I appreciated the therapeutic practice of writing, of purging the spiraling thoughts from my distressed mind, it has been my way to survive, to protect myself. It was actually a former psychiatrist (with whom I failed to connect with on any other topic!) who must be credited with planting the seed of starting this blog in my mind. Along with meditation, writing is my spiritual discipline. Inside my head I am torn with conflicts. I struggle to understand myself and my world, I write because I want to bring to myself and perhaps those who read my posts more light, more grace, more understanding. It helps heal the little girl who hurts, it gives her a voice. Finally.