I've been reading Bechdel's graphical memoirs out of chronological order. The Secret to Superhuman Strength was the first I read, and I only finally got to this. Fun Home is waiting with my other library books at the moment, as well as Superhuman Strength so I can review it with more context about Bechdel's parents. I don't know if Bechdel has any more out there at the time of writing this review.

In fact, I'll probably end up re-reading Are You My Mother? as well. Simply because I was having some trouble following Bechdel's narration regarding her engagement with psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott's writings. Winnicot, as well as Virginia Wolfe, are frequently discussed by means of quotation and illustration as Bechdel discovers parallels between their literature and her relationship with her mother. 

I was struck with admiration for how well-read Bechdel, struck with respect for how neatly the quotations were blended into the graphic novel medium, and finally struck with (more) confusion (than I care to admit) as I tried to parse the excerpts of Winnicott. The illustrations of patient cases were easier to understand. Perhaps re-reading will help.

While my relationship with my mother is not nearly as tumultuous as Bechdel's with hers, Are You My Mother? still got me thinking about questions I'd otherwise procrastinated on. Being one's adult offspring is much different from being a child. 

The line in the sand is very blurred as you have to meet your parent in the middle of being both their child and a fellow adult. I'm not entirely obligated to meet your expectations, but I still feel uneasy when you express disappointment with my decisions. And while you try to respect my judgment which is not yours, we keep coming to find the points that are similar. The way we laugh, the tendency for run-on sentences, our avoidance of confrontation, our nearly-identical higher education outcomes and irregular job history, and maybe even mental conditions?

But as much as we mirror, we do not address it. We take the scenic route to the main point. You can see it in the very way I am writing this review; it has become less about the book and more about my thoughts about my relationship with my mother. I've barely even talked about the actual book at this point. I get this tendency for tangents from her, after all.