{Why I Write}: Finding the Nerve

When people look at me, they usually think I am five to 10 years younger than my actual age. When I was waitressing in my early twenties, an older man flirtatiously told me he’d always been a sucker for a girl with a babyface and doe-eyes. I didn’t tell him that I thought he might be a pedophile, but I sweetly smiled, handed him his check, and waited for a big tip.

Today, I suspect that people see what they believe to be an unusually young mother struggling to physically contain her two raucous children in a shopping cart while flying through the aisles of Target. If I am at work, I am frequently pegged as the intern or the student teacher.

Sorry, kids. I am the psychologist here to observe your behavior.

I cannot count the number of times people told me how I will appreciate my youthful looks when I am older. Now, at 37 years young, sure, it’s nice to still get carded, and when someone asks me where I go to school, I wink, put on my best British accent, and tell them, “I am just here on holiday from uni.” The thing is, there is something of a power dynamic when it comes to age, and assuming someone is significantly younger than they actually are can inadvertently alter their self-perception, both negatively and positively, I suppose.

In addition to my babyface, I am an introvert, and as a child was repeatedly labeled “shy” by my extrovert mother. That, coupled with my intense interest in human emotions, led to my need to write everything I did, saw, and felt, down in my notebook. Think Harriet the Spy meets the Welch’s Grape Juice girl.

But when I am writing, there is no need to worry about the speed of my delivery, the sound of my own voice, or who might be lurking in the hallways waiting to ask me if I have a date to prom.

I can’t explain it; it just flows. You know the feeling—after a bit of warm-up, you start to notice yourself sinking into that sweet spot, almost like, Okay, yep, the drugs have officially kicked in. You get that juicy, tingly, blood-pumping through your limbs sensation, and you know can’t stop until you expel whatever the hell this beast is coming out of you. Maybe it’s a little like a truth serum, a magic elixir to tap into your memories, your desires, and expand your wisdom.

I write to expose my true self, to peel off the mask of everyday life, and to ferociously dig out the raw muddy truth at my core. I write to hold on, I write to let go, I write to remember who I really am and who I’ve always been. I write for courage, I write for freedom, and I write to ride into the night with a ball and chain and have my own Mel Gibson Braveheart moment, where I look that old man in the eye and say, “I’m not your fucking baby.”