I am reading a book now called "Couldn't Keep it to Myself". It's a bunch of short memoirs/short autobiographies(?) that these women wrote when they were in Wally Lamb's class at a maximum security prison. Needless to say, these women didn't have fun childhoods. Most of them were abused, either physically or verbally. The stories are really sad, and I've cried through just about every one, but I also can't put the book down.
I often try to dissect my childhood/early adulthood. I wonder how things could've gotten so far off track. I pretty much had a childhood that was perfect. Granted, there are things that I like to complain about at times, but I have NOTHING on the women in this book. I had a creek in my back yard and I was free to roam around during the summers, playing all day long. There were chores in my house, but I wasn't forced to sleep in the basement or deprived of food. I got to do sports and activities, and I did well in school. I never got teased in school, I was just always shy and insecure.
Thinking about myself and my own issues, I get to wondering what my psychiatrist must've been thinking when I was in therapy. Did he think "Good God, you have a perfect life. You weren't abused when you were a kid, you're smart, you're college-educated, you're from a middle-class family and had everything a kid could ask for....get over it"?
I hope he didn't think that. That would be embarassing.
