No one else in the family seems to understand Mom’s emotions. Everyone else walks around clueless, never knowing which Mom they’re going to get. But I always know. I’ve spent my whole life studying her so that I can always know, because I always want to do whatever I can in any given moment to keep or make Mom happy.

McCurdy’s memoir about her own immense suffering is strikingly egoless. she spends no time selling the reader on her likeability or worthiness as a narrator. Instead she methodically describes the single object of study that has defined most of her life: her mother’s happiness and what it cost. 

anyone with a parent (or parents) like McCurdy's mother will recognize in McCurdy's authorial voice the simple desire to explain that yes, it really was that bad. while a lot of McCurdy's life is not immediately relatable, her ability to write unflinchingly and unselfishly about her defining relationships means that I felt like parts of the book were eerily reminiscent of my experiences and those of many of my friends growing up. it hurts to come face-to-face with the reality that your parents are in it for themselves, and that you have no identity beyond the one you carefully cultivated to please them.

as deeply sad as this book was, I'm so glad that the story is still going. I'm glad McCurdy got to write this and has plans to keep writing. I want the world for her and for all girls everywhere.