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224 pages, Hardcover
First published November 7, 2023
The publisher didn’t want the book to be journalistic. They wanted it to be a memoir. A memoir was what I didn’t want to write…Their pages were covered in words that had a single mission: to share feelings. I was not especially good at sharing my feelings. I did not particularly want to share my feelings with the world. I would have rather not had feelings at all, had that been an option. I had been taught as a child that feelings were problems that caused upset to other people (my parents). I had spent my life avoiding, squashing, negating my feelings…I suppressed my urge to point out I was a journalist, not a memoirist, and agreed. (p. 195-6)
I wasn’t a failure, a fuckup, a bad wife. I was the result of signals and messages, covert and overt, that had reshaped who I was into someone I did not want to be. Bending over so far backward to please a man that I had thought my spine would crack, expecting less for myself, discerning my needs were less important than someone else’s.
The dog squatted over the grass, excreting a turd, panting with the effort of elimination. This was more than a personal story. It was a psychological experiment of my own, one in which I was my own research subject. I pulled a plastic bag over my hand, snagged the warm dog poop, and tied the bag’s top into a knot. I scampered back into the house. (p. 139)