What do you think?
Rate this book


149 pages, Hardcover
First published October 24, 2017
I first met my brilliant and beautiful friend Melissa Febos on the page when I read her memoir Whip Smart, in which she describes the four years she worked as a dominatrix in a Midtown dungeon. She described that part of her life as a "hell of her own making," as well as her experiences as a high school dropout and her drug and alcohol use. Let me tell you, her story is one of the most bold and clear expressions of the human condition I have ever clapped eyes on. Later in life when I met her in person, I do not think it would be an exaggeration to say that our body stories made a helix of sorts.Ah, the human condition in the dungeon.
Which is to say, being a misfit and incapable of conforming to social norms was painful, it was incontrovertible, and it forced me to find my truest calling, which has been so profound and that I would not trade for any better kind of fit. I was a strange and secretive child who buried things in the backyard, was aware of my queerness very young, and I read books with the same voracity that I shot heroin. My mother was a bisexual, feminist, Buddhist psychotherapist who raised me vegetarian and corrected the sexism of my children's books with Sharpie, and my father was a Puerto Rican sea captain. I say all this to make the point that there was no getting around it: I was different; we were different.No doubt about being different, but if you look deeper aren't we all? I was imagining the monthly meeting of a fictional Misfits Club with the members playing Can You Top This? Early in the book, Ms. Yuknavitch lays out her qualifications:
Up until that moment, all I was was a survivor. I'd survived my father's abuse, two divorces, flunking out of college, addiction, rehab, and incarceration. And, as noted, I'd lost most of my marbles when my daughter died, and I'd spent some time living under an overpass in a great altered state of megagrief and loss.And there are many more details of dangerous extremes. She even regrets, in this seemingly endless litany of self-pity, that she could escape addiction (presumably a demerit at the Club):
I'll say it bald: I'm your garden-variety functional addict with the annoying ability to kick. My clean and sober brothers and sisters are rolling their eyes right now.Not so much eye-rolling as simulated puking, I think.