Person on the Page

When I first saw Jennette McCurdy’s memoir I’m Glad My Mom Died among my Amazon book recommendations, I decided not to read it. First, I don’t usually read memoirs by celebrities. I prefer to read memoirs by writers. McCurdy earned some recognition as a Nickelodeon child star, so she is among the many celebrities who capitalize on their fame by writing a book. Whether or not the writing is good is another matter.

Second, I find the title of her book crass, tacky, and far too revealing. The sentiment sounds bratty. The title says too much. In fact, it says it all. She’s glad her mom is dead. There it is. No need to read the book. We can fill in any blanks with details from better-titled stories by many survivors of parental abuse.

Then I ran upon the book in my local library. Something made me check it out. It does belong within the sub-genre of memoir in which I am particularly interested—accounts of childhood abuse and trauma. And like McCurdy, I have my own story of parental abuse that I have been struggling to write, or not write, for over a decade. 

McCurdy’s book contains no surprises. A pushy show-biz mom exploits her daughter for gain.  Starves her to keep her small and childlike. Manipulates her to get her to perform when she doesn’t want to. Does what she thinks is best for her daughter’s career, not what’s best for her daughter. By the time the mother’s death from cancer is depicted in the book, readers might join her daughter in feeling relief and gladness that the abuse is over. 

Those of us who have endured lives with physically, sexually, or psychologically abusive parents might imagine that they will feel the same sort of gladness as McCurdy claims when the parent dies. I always thought that I would. I recall even declaring, at times when she made my life nearly unbearable, that I would dance on my mother’s grave.  

The morning that I received a phone call at work from the nursing home where she had been placed informing me that my mother had passed away, I did not feel like dancing. I told myself that I felt nothing. After the brief call ended, I resumed my work schedule as usual. I taught two classes, attended a committee meeting, stopped at the grocery store on my way home, ate dinner alone in my kitchen.

Surely now, I thought, I was free of the continual criticism, released from the attacks on any bit of self-esteem I could muster. No more being made to feel inadequate, unlovable, guilty, ashamed. I was free. Surely, I was.

By the next morning a weight had settled on me that couldn’t be ignored. I might have been relieved that the toxic relationship between my mother and me was over. I might have held out hope that her influence on my life would diminish with time. But was I glad that she was dead?  No. That weight stayed with me. And it revisits me even now.

During the years since my mother’s death, I have sometimes wondered if she were right all along? Perhaps I was responsible for the toxic relationship. Couldn’t I have done something to change things between us? Couldn’t I have been a better daughter? Given her what she wanted from me?  Couldn’t I have somehow made peace between us?

Wait. No. I was the child. She was the adult. The way that she chose to treat her daughter and the damage that she wrought are her responsibility. I refuse to blame myself. At least I try not to.

Yes, my life is better now that she is gone. Yes, I have built some self-esteem in her absence. I have proven to myself that I am not inadequate and unlovable. And now, I refuse the guilt and shame.  But am I glad she died?  No. No.