I’m in the ICU with my dying mother and the thing that I’m sure will get her to wake up is the fact that in the days since Mom’s been hospitalized, my fear and sadness have morphed into the perfect anorexia-motivation cocktail and, finally, I have achieved Mom’s current goal weight for me. Eighty-nine pounds. I’m so sure this fact will work that I lean all the way back in my chair and pompously cross my legs. I wait for her to come to. And wait. And wait.
Although Jennette McCurdy might not be pleased to hear it, I picked up I’m Glad My Mom Died because 1) My kids were fans of iCarly and I was peripherally aware of who she is, and 2) I noted the hub-bub around this memoir and wanted to know what that was about. And I can see why this has caught fire: Contrary to her most famous character’s persona of a wise-cracking tough kid, young Jennette was a scared, manipulated, mentally abused child of the ultimate controlling Stage Mother; and to the extent that the details of her childhood were undeniably repelling, I can imagine that anyone who grew up watching Sam Puckett beat up bullies would have their minds blown to learn what was actually running through her tortured mind on set. As for me: I was shocked to learn the details of this unhappy childhood — if not shocked to read that it sucks to be a child actor, and especially if it is to live out someone else’s dream — but I was engaged by McCurdy’s voice and evolving tone (ie, when she writes of being a very young child, she reports how she viewed her mother at that time, not through the lens of later wisdom; as she ages, the tone becomes more knowing) and there was recognisable craft to that. So, while this doesn’t read like the most polished memoir, I applaud McCurdy’s strength and candour and hope that her (eventually happy) story can serve as inspiration to those who resonate with it. I’m happy to have read this, if only to join the cultural moment, and McCurdy can rest easier knowing that if I saw her on the street, I would never yell “fried chicken” at her or ask to see her buttersock (and never before knew that these were things that people do to her; what a stupid price for fame).
I’m more convinced than ever that I need to quit acting. That it doesn’t serve my mental or emotional health. That it’s been destructive to both. I think about what else has been destructive to my mental and emotional health…the eating disorders, of course, and the alcohol issues. And then I realize that, as much as I’m convinced that I need to quit these things — acting, bulimia, alcohol — I don’t think that I can. As much as I resent them, in a strange way they define me. They are my identity. Maybe that’s why I resent them.
From growing up in a hoarder house (Jennette and her three brothers slept on trifold mats in the living room because their bedrooms were stuffed with garbage), experiencing poverty (despite her father working two jobs and her live-in maternal grandparents both working, the McCurdys were always behind on bills), and living with a mother obsessed with having survived breast cancer (the kids were forced to weekly watch a video of their mother singing them lullabies when she thought that she was dying), young Jennette learned to tame the chaos of her homelife by monitoring her mother’s moods and trying to always keep her happy. So when her mom suggested that she should start acting when she was six — something her mom had wanted to do as a child but her own parents wouldn’t allow — Jennette couldn’t say no, despite crippling discomfort and anxiety. Every move that Jennette made from that point was aimed at satisfying her mother’s ambitions (and alleviating the family’s poverty), and despite creepy/abusive behaviours at home (her mother insisted on showering Jennette, sometimes with her teenaged brother, until she was seventeen; her mother taught her “calorie restriction” and encouraged anorexia; her mother disowned her when paparazzi caught Jennette with a boyfriend [while writing in the same email that they needed money to replace a broken fridge]), Jennette put so much pressure on herself to do the thing she hated most (play Sam on iCarly) that she ended up punishing herself with eating disorders, alcohol abuse, negative self-talk, and codependent relationships; punishments that continued even after her mother eventually did die of cancer. While the details of Jennette’s early life are the stuff of pathos (she includes many more details than I’ve listed here), it’s perhaps even sadder to watch her — outwardly living a life envied by millions — spend years trying to shed her dead mother’s impossible (and manipulative) expectations.
I had put her up on a pedestal, and I know how detrimental that pedestal was to my well-being and life. That pedestal kept me stuck, emotionally stunted, living in fear, dependent, in a near constant state of emotional pain and without the tools to even identify that pain let alone deal with it. My mom didn’t deserve her pedestal. She was a narcissist. She refused to admit she had any problems, despite how destructive those problems were to our entire family. My mom emotionally, mentally, and physically abused me in ways that will forever impact me.
Most of the cover blurbs call this memoir funny, but it’s more quietly snarky-ironic than comedic. (For instance, McCurdy writes: There’s something about inherently dramatic moments that makes eye contact during those moments feel even more weighty and dramatic. It’s a hat on a hat. There’s enough drama here as it is. We’re good.) The blurbs also call this honest and compassionate and that’s where the best stuff is: this is the story of a survivor and I wish Ms McCurdy all the best.
My mom didn't get better. But I will.
