The scenes from Felicia Sullivan's book are heartbreaking.
Stories of her childhood as she watched her mother abuse drugs, and abused by often-violent men. Stories of a child who had to take her mother to the emergency room on a regular basis when the dope stopped feeling good. Stories of a nomadic youth. Stories that aren't filled with love, and don't have happy endings.
I didn't know where to start with my review. I really didn't. It isn't because I didn't get it, because I did. It isn't because the book isn't good, because it is. I didn't really know where to start, I think, because I am very aware of the fact that a lot of the author's childhood was like my own.
I too, lived in a home with a single, drug abusing parent, and sure as hell, it wasn't pretty.
Ms. Sullivan tells us about some of the minutiae of life with her mother, and her own struggles with addiction and it's aftermath. Anyone reading this very personal, powerful, and moving memoir, should come away knowing at least one thing for certain: That the wreckage of substance abuse isn't just physical, and it isn't just mental. The wreckage is emotional, and it's raw... and despite what you've been told, time doesn't heal all wounds.
Felicia Sullivan's well-written story is one of survival, not victory.
Sometimes survival is the best we can ask for.
This review is sponsored by the Parent Bloggers Network, and those fine folks at Algonquin books.
You can read Felicia Sullivan's blog here.