I don’t know why I keep picking up these memoirs that recount childhoods chock-full of horrific excuse. I don’t know why I devour them in a couple of sittings, ravenous for the abject, the gory details, the horror. I don’t even know if I enjoy it. But I keep doing it over and over.
This one probably qualifies as writing for healing rather than being something you read for entertainment. With everything that entails.