Thoughts on I’m Glad My Mom Died: A Moving View of Jennette McCurdy’s Healing Journey

Simon & Schuster

I read a lot.

Fiction, non-fiction, space operas, history, technical manuals; it almost doesn’t matter. I am always reading something.

Occasionally there’s a biography or an autobiography in there, too.

I generally try to avoid speaking in absolutes. In the case of these last two genres, however? I can remember clearly every one I’ve read, all the way back to my first at 10 (Lee Iacocca’s Iacocca). So it is with a great deal of (what I feel is, anyway) justified confidence I say: I have always known any least something about the subject of the book before I picked it up.

I was outside the demographic for Nickelodeon’s iCarly by something like a couple of decades. So, in the case of I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy, it was not the author’s name that had me interested, but rather the title.

It was ...catchy to me. Likely it also resonated with others who have suffered through the deep trauma only a parent can inflict.

The cover photo, too—was intriguing. Upon seeing it, my inner-monologue went something like "What is she holding? Is that an urn? OK, maybe this has potential!”

[And before you go telling me not to judge a book by its cover. I agree with comedian Jim Norton here: “That’s why books have them.”]

I’m usually reading and/or listening to any number of books at once, depending on what’s going on. Lately my list has been long. I even carry multiple books with me to the coffee shop where I’ve been writing, just in case I feel like taking a break from writing to learn more about my own healing journey. This is in addition to the seeming library of stuff sitting in audible or my kindle app, or on my desk, either currently being read, or waiting their turn.

My ADHD means it is rare for me to find a book I have a hard time putting down, though it does mean at times I am fairly easily captivated. Because of this, how a story, or an author holds my attention—or even just whether they do—is something to which I usually feel I ascribe far too much value. It hardly seems fair, after all, to pit any author’s work against my inability to hold my focus like a neurotypical person might. Sometimes though, I feel I'm justified in holding things to that standard.

It is with this in mind that I say it is something else entirely for me to find a work that almost forces me to cast all the other books aside until I’m done.

When one does, though - even for a topic as somber as this - there is a magic in it for me.

I loved this book.

Not my coffee shop, DALL-E has made it considerably more cozy. Sometimes, though, I feel that’s what my table looks like!

With the exception of the time I spent with my kids - I could not stop listening to this.

It should go without saying that Ms McCurdy and I have had vastly different existences.

Imagine my surprise, then, when so much of her story hit home for me it was scary. It’s not the specifics that did it to me: I’m male, not an actor, the eating disorder I was left with wasn’t forced anorexia, or bulimia, the reasons were different. That’s not a drop in the bucket, and I haven’t even made mention of the other battles and challenges specific to a narcissistic Mother/daughter relationship, among a lot of other things.

There were so many differences, that on the surface I feel strange drawing any comparison to the lifetime of abuse Jennette McCurdy has suffered through.

Which is what made it so remarkably odd, that while listening to her story, when she would be relating her mother’s part of a conversation, I stopped hearing Jennette McCurdy’s pleasant voice. And heard my mother’s.

I am finding it really hard to describe in the moment here, but in spite of our lives having so few similarities, the kinship I felt with her while I listened to her tell her story isn’t something I’ve found often.

Writing this now keeps bringing me back to a recurring thought:

I’ve read a lot in my life. As a young adult, reading provided as much of an escape for me as movies did in my earlier childhood.  Something I’ve learned, I’m sure I’m not remotely close to the first one to say something similar, but I can’t break my focus to get lost in google right now (Can we give it up for Vyvanse, please?!?).

When you read (or listen to) a book, whether it’s a good book or not; whether you like the subject matter or not; whether, when you are finished with it, you donate it, give it away, or find it a home on your favorite bookshelf so you can read it again someday... You are left with something you didn’t have before. You have been changed.

Sometimes it’s something earth shattering enough that it causes you to change the direction of your life.  More often, though, it’s simply the subtle change that comes with acquiring knowledge we didn’t have before.

The stories told by Ms McCurdy in I’m Glad My Mom Died left me with a lot more than, given the differences between she and I, I imagined it would. I listened about a month ago now, and I am going to have to give it a listen again soon, because I know I have not quite processed some of the things I wanted to.

Of all the feelings this book brought up in me (there were ... a lot), I don’t think I can remember ever finishing a book and feeling this kind of... solidarity?

I loved that she narrated the audiobook in her voice. Besides actually having enjoyed hearing this in her own words, for me, it made it feel lot more, if not relatable, exactly, then genuine.

There was one part of the narration where Ms McCurdy broke for a fraction of a second, and you could feel the pain she was experiencing through the cracks in her voice.

I don’t know how she only broke once telling her story.

I was only hearing it, and it wasn’t my story, and I lost count of how many times it broke me.

And while I can’t say I’m Glad My Mom Died is something that changed the direction of my life (yet), I can say this:

The courage Jennette McCurdy has shown in telling her story has helped me find mine. It’s one of the reasons I finally pushed the ‘publish’ button on this site.

I guess her story changed me in more ways than I thought.

Thank you for sharing your story, Jennette.

Vaya con dios