My mother was bipolar, narcissistic, and cold as a snake. Our father abandoned us and she moved far away from extended family so there was little support. I and my sister (and to some extent, my stepbrother and stepsister) suffered daily physical and emotional abuse.
My siblings chose difficult and dangerous pathways much different from mine. My little sister Lynn tried to overcome the abuse but chose destructive habits, people, and paths. She took her life five years ago at age 44 after suffering all kinds of abuse from many people. I blame our mother.
I will write a memoir; I’ve begun, in vignettes.
I began writing them just to release some of the pain; in January I decided I also want to offer them in a book, to possibly help others.
People who have endured childhood abuse might be interested in such books; the words of some strangers I have met or read recently seem to be evidence that some people would.
I have been curious, though, and wondered, “Would people who have NOT suffered such abuse be interested in this kind of book?” Maybe they would not relate or even care to dive into that kind of world, where happiness is alien and fear is home. Of course, I wouldn’t blame them.