I'm reading quite an interesting book. It is the autobiography of Jennette McCurdy, former child actress, titled "I'm Glad My Mom Died." I won't go into all the reasons the title intrigued me. Her mother coping long-term with cancer was determined to live her dream of acting through Jennette, and forced her to do all the things necessary to be a star. Jennette's only goal was to keep her mother happy and alive, so she complied. Her mother encouraged her to practice anorexia. Jennette ended up with multiple eating disorders and other addictions.
A couple things bubble up for me via this book. First, this is my story without the acting. As a pre-schooler, my Grammie's sudden death terrified me, so fearing that the same could happen to my mom, my mission became keeping my mother happy and alive at all cost. Second, Jeanette's mom thought she was doing the right and good thing for her daughter, but she was one messed-up woman. Ditto for me. This makes me ponder the idea that "love" can mean very different things to different people.
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Vacation continues to be awesome. I made us a pot of lentil soup for last night's supper. (Yes, you read that--I cooked!) We had a lovely morning walk around the neighborhood, pool time, and our fourth girlfriend has arrived. More game-playing and celebrating and laughter ensued.
"I don't wanna go home" 😂
Leta
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