In my recent book, Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity (Kindle) or Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity, I tell the story of growing up within a culture and a race that was different to my own. Here’s an excerpt as to why I had to start a therapy program:

I stand motionless atop a rugged cliff, scanning a landscape where a cloudless sky spans the horizon. The jasmine-scented breeze touches the tassel hanging from my cap and dances in the folds of my gown… Yes, my gown, my newly acquired heavy black silk academic regalia. Three velvet stripes on the sleeves honor the doctoral degree, and the blue, gold, and white striped hood lying on my shoulders represents the School of Humanities. “Here they are,” I hear the breeze whisper in my ear, “time for you to try them on.” I turn my head to the right, and from the corner of my eye see a majestic wing, the sort a renaissance artist would have pinned on the Archangel Gabriel. “There’s one on the other side as well,” the breeze adds jokingly. I would hope so, I think to myself, and smile. “They are light but powerful, Catana; it’s time for you to use them.” I hesitate. “Go ahead, go now.” Tentatively, I hunch my shoulders forward, then upward; I spread first one, then the other wing. I look again to the right, then to the left and carefully move the pair of magnificent extensions. “They’re perfect,” the breeze murmurs, “now fly…” Obediently, I flap my wings once, twice, and the wind lifts me up. “Courage,” the breeze calls, sensing my fears. “By the way, you look like a natural at this. Good luck,” I hear as the wind carries me onward and upward, and I soar like an eagle. Like an eagle I dip and glide weightlessly, but purposefully in the air. I survey the immensity of what lays before, below, beside me. Mountains, hills, valleys, I glide through canyons and ravines, skim over streams and lakes, over sandy coastlines, and up again to hover above snow-capped mountains: inhaling the breathtaking splendor that surrounds me. Suddenly, unexpectedly and uncalled for, the glorious wings collapse spectacularly and I spiral downward from the heavens, out of control, like a dejected angel.

I awake frightened, disoriented, and bathed in cold sweat.
After six years of focused academic work, I completed my doctorate in Humanistic Studies in 1989. Following my academic advisor’s suggestion I applied for a position at a college nearby. But I decided that I needed to look into my bouts of anxiety that came from nowhere and each time devastated me emotionally. It was time to look at my past, time to start therapy.

Read more: Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity (Kindle) or Split at the Root: A Memoir of Love and Lost Identity.