Diana, my breakdown spiritual awakening therapist, and I spent a lot of time talking about the Jungian concept of integration. Over the course of 2007, this Dianaism became a mantra for me: “Stop alternating and start integrating.”

Part of midlife is scooping up all the different versions of yourself that you’ve created to please folks, and integrating them into one whole, authentic person. This is tough work for me. I’m so good at assessing exactly who I need to be and when I need to be it. It’s really too bad that "alternating" eventually sucks your soul right out of your body.

In addition to curbing the chameleon action, the other part of integrating has been the very painful process of reconnecting with the parts of myself that I orphaned over the years. You know – the parts of ourselves that we abandon because they get in the way of who and what we need to be now.

In January, I started writing the chapter on this process for the new book. I thought I had a handle on it . . . right up until the horrifying moment when my past caught up with me on Facebook.

Here’s the thing – I reluctantly joined Facebook (then deleted my account, then started it again, then deleted my account, then started it again) to connect with the people in my life now. There was a small part of me that was willing to go back to 1995 – but NOTHING pre-'95.

A few weeks ago, the people from high school found me. Then, days later as I was still reeling from being detected by the Bearkats, I was pushed out of hiding by people who knew me when I was in my early 20’s.

I blame my parents. If you're going to saddle a kid with a weird name, you should be honest with them from the very start: “You can’t be too wild. You can’t be a shitty friend. Ever. You can’t make really bad decisions at closing time. And, you’ll never find a pencil with your name on it at Stuckeys.”

I panicked as my email box started filling up with “hi there stranger” notes. I wanted to scream, “You can’t know me now! I won’t let you. You were part of the dark days and that Brené is gone. People like me now. I like me now. GET OUT!”

As much as I didn't want my new life contaminated by my old life, I also resented the idea of people from my past jumping on my blog and reading about my life. We (you and me) know that my life is messy and amazing and imperfect and complex and wonderful and full of midlife-midlove struggles, but THEY haven't earned the right to read about the quiet unravelings, the breakdowns, and the breakthroughs.

I was so angry as I thought about them infiltrating my life. I kept looking at the old pictures that classmates were posting. When I saw myself there was a part of me that thought, “I hate that girl. She’s not part of me.”

Then anger gave way to grief. She was me. And, more importantly, she still is a part of me. And so are the unravelings, the breakdowns, and the breakthroughs.

In my heart, I knew that I had to be a safe place for this wayward girl – the one who was scared, alone, and confused. She was ashamed of everything because she compared her realities to the fantasies that she had about other peoples’ lives (everyone else is having a great time, other people’s parents don’t fight, no one but me is afraid, everyone else knows all about bodies and sex and love and belonging and friendship).

She deserved to be treated with kindness and compassion. I couldn’t give it to her back then, but I can now.

Just as my lost and lonely high school Brené was starting to make her way back home, I got a message from a friend who knew me from my early-twenties-self-destruct phase. “Damn girl! You did good. Who would’ve guessed?”

I thought, “Seriously. There are no more rooms at the Integration Inn.”

Luckily, this is the wild young woman who I began to reclaim in 2007 (and started writing about in early January). In the book I write about a terrifying moment when I saw my Ann Taylor self holding a gun to the head of my Hard-Living-Hard-Partying self and saying, “You’ve got to go. You’re going to blow my cover. I teach Sunday school now. No one can know about you.”

The rest of their conversation was as painful as integration gets for me. Writing about it has helped (and I’m sure that sharing it here is part of the process). I'm not really Ann Taylor - that was yet another cover. Granted, I may not completely be the big-haired, bad-ass, hard-rocking girl either, but I assure you that she's alive and well (and God did I miss her).

Maybe it’s good that I’ve facebooked my fears. Now that my heart has opened up a home for all of these girls, I’m even having a good time reconnecting. I promised myself that I would practice authenticity with the new/old friends. I wouldn’t shrink or puff up. I’d just be me. All of me.

One of the beautiful, popular girls from high school sent me a message on Facebook, “What do you think about all of us getting back in touch?” I responded, “It’s a little tough – high school wasn’t my best period.” Her response surprised me: “I know. It was so lonely and miserable. But we made it.”

My wayward girls and I had a good laugh - then I looked on with envy as the wild one snuck out for a cigarette.

Anyone else reclaiming or reuniting out there?