Familial Pieces: The Family's Reaction to the Book

                 This morning I spoke on the phone with my mother. She was elated that she was reading a novel for the first time in years. Normally, she reads books on biblical counseling or on Christian dating, books that can impart her with knowledge on how to help people. But today, she decided to read a novel for pure enjoyment. I was happy for her. I told her I just picked up a new novel myself, The Help by Kathryn Stockett. Similar to my mother, I read only what is required of me to read. Being an English major, seldom do I have time for extracurricular reading. I don't mind very much because I enjoy the works of American classicists; never does it feel like a chore to study their greatness. Of all of our American greats, I must admit  Hawthorne is my favorite. His works entertain and causes readers to give pause to thought. He wrote with a purpose other than to sensationalize his audience. He remained true to his conscious and to his God.

                  To my surprise, my mother told me she had to put my book, Scattered Pieces, down for a minute and decided to pick up the novel instead. I had no idea she was reading my book. I mean, I knew she purchased one of my very first copies, but she gave that one away to one of her friends before she even read it. When my grandmother passed, my mother took the copy my grandmother was reading. I didn't think she was reading it because she kept trying to promote my book to churches and Christian bookstores. I figured if she read it at all, she would know that those were not the appropriate platforms for promotion. Don't get me wrong, my memoir and my message definitely has Christian undertones, but they are delivered in a very REAL way...(if you know what I mean). But, when my mother said she needed to put my book down for a minute, I knew she was really reading it. She had definitely got to the chapters where I wasn't her biggest fan. I knew I would have to cross this bridge eventually with my family, and this morning was the time. 

I'm just going to keep things 100% genuine when I say that in reading my book, I know my husband and my mother were not painted in the best of lights. I've acknowledged this to the both of them. And, it wasn't my intention to ever mar their image or place them on an unrealistic pedestal to save face.  As I wrote, I forced myself to go back to my youth and the early stages of my marriage--two of the most uncomfortable stages of my life--and revisit all of those repressed emotions and transfer them onto the page. As I wrote, I often cried, curled onto my leather office chair hugging myself, trying to bring myself solace, attempting to bring myself back into the realities of present day that those events had passed away. As I wrote, I often prayed God would continue to help me in the process of forgiveness.  It's true what they say, "one can forgive, but not forget." Well, in order for me to forgive, I had to forget. But, when I had to tap back into the reservoir of my psyche, all of the hurt, all of the anger, and all of the fears resurfaced. After composing certain chapters involving my husband, I had to walk over to him and hug him, kiss him, and tell him how grateful I am that we overcame those obstacles. But, I'm not married to my mother. The wounds involving her and my father are from most of the years of my existence, and they came apparent to her as she read.

                   When my mother implied that my book was difficult for her to read because of the things I wrote about her, I immediately empathized. I acknowledged the validity of her concern and assured that it improves in its conclusion. I also told her that with the exception of the introduction of my high school years and the book's final chapter and "Afterword," I wrote from the feelings and emotions I experienced during documented events. It was necessary for me to do so in order to underscore the development of my psychosis. My memoir's "Introduction" shows both she and I--two people who endured different forms of abuse from the same abuser, my father. The book unveils the aftermath of the abuse on the parts of both of us. I told her that in reading from a psychological perspective a reader can gain a deeper appreciation. Thankfully, she understood.