I have an admirer of my writing style. I have to let that sink in a bit. Accepting praise, compliments and such aren’t easy for me. Since I don’t trust easily, my mind goes to the negative and I wonder what does this person want from me or how do they benefit by complimenting me. I really am working on this. 

This admirer suggested a couple of books for me to read. Saying I would be able to relate and that I should consider writing my own memoir. 

The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls is consuming.

Inside the front cover where the praise for the story is typed out one reads “Jeanette Walls has carved out a story with precision and grace out of one of the most chaotic, heartbreaking childhoods ever to be set down on page.”  That is where where my attention caught and I gobbled up the first 100 pages eagerly into the late night hours. I wondered if my childhood could rival hers.

In the acknowledgment section Jeanette thanks her editor for “her keen sense of how much is enough”  Here I paused again because I know there are those blessed with idealic childhoods that couldn’t even fathom the possibilities of some of these events to have happened. I’ve often thought that if I were to tell EVERYTHING it’d seem like I’d made some of it up. Too hard to believe or too much to consider. Our minds can only handle so much and those fragile, “that could never happen”  simple minds wouldn’t gain much from a story with too much heartbreak and negativity.

I do recommend this story but I caution you to be prepared for the crudeness that’s required to tell her tale. You see that’s where I struggle to tell my own. There are parts so ugly my own heart races when I read a small piece I remember  that I’ve managed to write out and share with Dave. My throat gets thick and silent tears track down my cheeks. Constant fear that he will now see me differently. (Thankfully he hasn’t yet)

Towards the very ending of this tale Jeanette writes that her husband John “thinks her physical scar was interesting, and the scar meant that I was stronger than whatever it was that had tried to hurt me.”  

Here, my eyes begun to sting and my fingers took on a slight tremble. I do not have any physical scars but I do wonder if I really am stronger than what hurt me.