What do you do when you've been hurt by bullies? When you're so filled up with that hurt, you don't know what to do with all the MAD inside? This is the story of a little girl who is so angry from being hurt, she feels dirty, ugly and stupid. And that makes her madder! But she finds a magic that can help heal all that hurt, and help her believe in magic again!
From its first caustic, blackly hilarious quote to its unbelievable ending, Freak examines a roller coaster ride of a life and never lets up. It tells the true story of Rebecca O'Donnell, an atypical hero who found joy and laughter in the darkest of circumstances. Unlike so many spunky survivors of damaged pasts, Rebecca belonged to those far more common gray areas of depression and insecurity, hidden behind a mask she showed the world.
For decades, all her decisions were colored by that grayness, that insecurity; she had put herself into a pit and had to discover a way to crawl out of it. With laughter, self-recognition, and a drop of shaky courage, Rebecca shares exactly how she did that, discovering in the process a gift that she never expected-the ability to help others build their own ladder out of hell. Freak offers hope to anyone who has ever heard that voice of self-hatred-the gremlin of insecurity whispering that we can't, we shouldn't, and we don't deserve.
It is the denial of that gremlin and the shattering of its lie that make this memoir resonate with other victims of incest, substance abuse, and depression.
So many people helped me in the writing of this memoir. Those who gave me courage to keep writing when my insecurity addiction got twitchy, those who lived through some of it with me, those who read it and believed it was important when I was still too wet noodle spined to believe it. My daughter called it "Mom's hideous, hilarious bluntness." My kindred spirit obsessed over the part where I'm denying myself a donut (that one surprised me), my best friend giving me, in his usual sledgehammer way, the blackly funny opening quote. These are the people who, like Mister Rogers recommended us all to find, the Helpers who were the foundation I could build on. So thank you to them, to you who read the crazy thing, and my brothers and sisters of circumstance who struggle with their own insecurity addictions. You all and Me? We're nobody's dirty little secret.
Anybody who has an addict in the family knows exactly what I'm talking about in this chapter. But being the parent of an addict? Hell on earth. I found myself grateful for my own abusive childhood, my addict parents and siblings, my years of horror as a youth. It had prepared me for having an addict as a child. I saw these poor parents in my Family Association group meetings, floundering in the onslaught of the indescribable, and I felt lucky that I already knew suffering. It could be my armor. Of course, that's bullshit. Nothing can prepare you for such a battle; fighting to save your own child from themselves. You make a mistake, and your kid is dead.
To all my brothers and sisters of circumstance: You're not a piece of shit. You never were. It was always a lie. Remember, we're nobody's dirty little secret. Hang in there.
Catatonic freezes are apparently not as common as I supposed they were, back when they were a frequent thing in my third grade life. Same with traumatic amnesia. Memory is still patchy from that year but I do remember seeing my kind brother all the time. I simply accepted it, as a kid would. Didn't matter that he was dead. I saw him, talked with him, so he was there.
There's an obnoxious monster skulking around inside a person when they've been abused as a kid. I'd gotten through my own crazy childhood, into adulthood and into college, far away from my heavy-gravity vortex of a family. I thought that would be enough. But until you deal with those gaping wounds inside, or even realize they're there, you're going to be a really dumb adult who makes really dumb decisions. Like me. I wrote this memoir so others can learn from my own dumbass mistakes. Best thing to do with a manure pile of memories: turn it into compost and grow a garden in it. You, my brothers and sisters of circumstance, are my garden. This book is for you.
Prostitution is legal. Money is openly worshipped as a god. Children of the elite are grown in artificial hosts instead of their mother's womb. Ultimate luxury hotels supply their clientele with AI sex droids created solely to fulfill every fantasy. Stupendous wealth is a moral imperative - not only to sustain, but grow, by any means necessary. Human life is disposable. Dolly, Keisha and Tanja are three human sex workers trying to make it in a world where living flesh is becoming obsolete. Sarcastic, bawdy, and completely loyal to each other, the women work the streets and cheap hotels every night while Kyle, their driver, keeps a protective eye over them. One day, woken by one of her chronic nightmares, Dolly goes for a jog in an attempt to clear her head. Finding herself in an unknown area, she accidentally stumbles onto a terrible secret which soon puts all their lives in danger. Now they must run from a ruthless, unstoppable enemy who has eyes and ears everywhere.
I've been friends with a lot of sex workers, and I've always enjoyed their dark humor and insight into human beings, albeit usually their darker side. For the short period in my youth when I was homeless, I considered being a prostitute, and I recognized the draw of it all. When you've been sexually abused as a child, that shit lodges in your primal memory. Stepping into a world where you're at least paid for it didn't seem that bad. Dolly is a fascinating, ribald and cynical whore, a lover of culture, a collector of books and stories, and a woman on the edge of collapse. I loved going with her on this incredible ride.
I love Sean and Dolly. They both have good hearts but in completely different ways. Sean is analytical about his philanthropy in the Underground Railroad. Dolly knows suffering firsthand, so absorbs trauma more easily. She finds comfort in the Arts, in her small but priceless group of friends, even the simple joy of making breakfast. Despite her known world, which has recently come crashing down, Dolly can turn the simple act of flipping pancakes into a balm.
When writing this scene, I drew on my own experience with severe insomnia. I once went almost two weeks without sleeping at all. I started seeing things too. Creepy as hell.
Dolly is such a beloved character to me. It was a joy getting to know her as her story unfolded in my head. This scene is where a scientist begins to examine her, revealing secrets she didn't even know existed.
I'm a huge fan of museums and movies, and that love found its way into Dolly's character. Art is a solace to her. Here's where even that comfort begins to be taken away.
This part was hard to write. I sketched it out, adding color, texture and smell in my imagination, then stepped inside Dolly's emotions while she was seeing this. When it gave me nightmares myself, I knew it was ready.
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