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.

Started it, but I’m not in the mood for this kind of thing these days.

Is it wrong to have a favorite mental illness?