This morning I finished reading “A Wolf at the Table” by Augusten Burroughs, his recollection of growing up with an emotionally distant and psychotic father and a suicidal mother. Shit! Some people are really dealt a terrible hand in life. Although I have come to learn that there’s no such thing as “normal” when it comes to family, just different degrees of abnormal, Burroughs’ upbringing was decidedly fucked up. Imagine for a moment as a young boy having your father tell you he was going to kill you. "Fucked up" may be a mild way of describing his childhood. While his disturbed childhood may have given him the material on which his successful writing career is based, he makes it clear that he still longs for one that was happier, even just a little bit. All the riches in the world can’t ever make up for what was lost.
I’m sure he’d give anything to trade with me, but I wouldn’t be willing to give it up. Not now…not ever.
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