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.
Ruthless Red Pen 
It is interesting to read this. My mother had a very difficult relationship with her mother. It was during the depression and the story is unique to the times. Now that my mother has passed away, I remember pieces of her life returning to me. Her sister is still alive and we are in contact with one another. My mom was one of the strongest people I knew. Would those who haven’t experienced abuse be interested in your book? Perhaps. I wish you the best.
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Thank you! I wish you abundant blessings, too!
Your mother’s strength is something you remember about her; how lovely! I hope my children will also think “strong” when they remember me.
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Well, she had many set backs and I saw them all as a child and an adult including some addiction to alcohol. I will never completely understand but I admire the challenging times of living in New York without a very supportive base. It required of her to adapt and she had not choice but to be strong but we all saw the affects within her. Sometimes you have no choice but to move forward.
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Moving forward, indeed. Something drives some to push on, to lift the obstacles they cannot scale or avoid and toss them upon the load, carrying on because to not do so is out of the question.
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