The Long Shadow of Trauma-- this is a long discussion of a syndrome which isn't in the DSM (this is being fought over), but which seems to be a distinctive result of repeated early trauma.
( Details which are stressful to read )
Link thanks to
siderea.
All the Fishes Come Home to Roost by Rachel Manija Brown is a memoir about growing up in a hellish Indian ashram. It could have been worse, but as an adult, the author was asked if she'd grown up in a war zone.
I think the second quarter could probably be skimmed-- it gets a little repetitious, but the second half, as the author gets her feet under herself and then builds an adult life and finds out something of the background of how her parents could make such a mess, is really major.
The author relentlessly hangs onto her own mind and her own perceptions of how crazy the people around her were, and the few who weren't. This book belongs on rationalists' bookshelves.
And there's a bit where she's trying to figure out how to write this memoir, and nothing seems like it could work. Then she sits down to write a letter to the one adult who gave her reasonable encouragement to be a writer, and her shame and confusion fall away because she's no longer imagining the people who don't want to hear what she has to say, and the basic approach she needs is obvious.
( Details which are stressful to read )
Link thanks to
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
All the Fishes Come Home to Roost by Rachel Manija Brown is a memoir about growing up in a hellish Indian ashram. It could have been worse, but as an adult, the author was asked if she'd grown up in a war zone.
I think the second quarter could probably be skimmed-- it gets a little repetitious, but the second half, as the author gets her feet under herself and then builds an adult life and finds out something of the background of how her parents could make such a mess, is really major.
The author relentlessly hangs onto her own mind and her own perceptions of how crazy the people around her were, and the few who weren't. This book belongs on rationalists' bookshelves.
And there's a bit where she's trying to figure out how to write this memoir, and nothing seems like it could work. Then she sits down to write a letter to the one adult who gave her reasonable encouragement to be a writer, and her shame and confusion fall away because she's no longer imagining the people who don't want to hear what she has to say, and the basic approach she needs is obvious.