Jack London went on crazy adventures in the wilderness and then used those adventures to inspire himself to write and publish books.

My crazy adventures have all been my unique experiences peering into other people’s lives.

I feel a need to write these things down and let them out. I want to write them down and show other people the things I see here-but it feels like such a strange betrayal to put these things to paper.

Most of these people did terrible things to me. The things I feel I can’t say, I can’t tell you about that I desperately want to-are all of the worst. Why am I so scared to betray my father by telling you that after I broke the cookie jar lid he chased me and then told me I’d better stay away because he knew he’d kill me if he could? Why do I feel like I’m betraying my mother by telling you about the pure evil insanity I’ve seen in her eyes?

Despite how horrific these moments are, they are also intimate. I don’t have moments of sweet intimacy with my parents, I don’t remember being held and told how wonderful I was-the only personal moments of connection I had with my parents were horrifying.

And so I would guess where other people would feel it a betrayal to tell you about how their parents sobbed, snot dripping from their noses and hearts aching when they moved out and went off to college, I feel it a betrayal to tell you about the time my dad got drunk and tried to run over deer in the back yard, or the stories of how (so far) three or their four daughters have moved out at sixteen.