I’ve been gobbling up Annita P. Sawyer‘s new book: Smoking Cigarettes, Eating Glass. This was the memoir she was working on when we studied together at Bread Loaf, a prestigious writing conference in Middlebury, Vermont.  Like me, Annita was sitting in class struggling with all of those horrible decisions one has to make during revision. What tense should I tell my story in? Which scenes should I cut because they’re too pedestrian?  You know, all of those annoying, vital things.

One obstacle after the next, and, man, she stuck with it. And here she is, a million drafts later, with this lovely published book.

It can’t be easy to write about one’s suicidal teen years, electroshock therapy, the mental health care system in the 50’s and 60’s; about what it took to come out the other side, to become a Yale-educated shrink no less.  Lots of folks who start these what-the-hell-happened-to-me projects never get beyond the first draft because shame and horror have a funny way of getting in the way.  Suddenly, colonoscopies and root canals start looking like far more preferable pastimes.

The more I read, the more I love this shy, soft-spoken woman I bonded with all those years ago. A kindred spirit I could spot from a mile away–even amongst the sea of fellow introverts common to those sorts of writers’ events–she gave off that people-pleaser vibe I’ve fought so hard to lose.

No surprise here, she, too, was raised by wolves. She got spoon-fed all of those familiar, fucked up rules.

The other day, I was speaking to a couple of coaching clients, and I was struck by the descriptions of their harsh, violent self-talk, the sort that could have been pulled word for word from the pages of Annita’s book. Sure, you’d expect those thoughts to swirl in the head of a diagnosed schizophrenic locked up in a psych ward, someone who’d just slit her wrists and eaten glass, someone about to be strapped to a gurney and zapped with a gajillion volts, but not in that of a successful businesswoman.

“I suck.  No man would ever want me.”

“Nobody likes me, and how could I blame them.”

“I wish I could be like that, and not like me.”

“If I let others get to know the real me, they’ll only leave.”

Sometimes I listen to the voices in my own head, the ones that tell me I’ll never be good enough; I’ll never do enough, and I realize how incredibly damaging they are. I recognize how cruel they sound. How clinically CRAZY they are. Which has a way of bringing me up short; of making me far more aware of my choices. Because, for those of us with a grip on reality, however tenuous; we choose to let these thoughts in, or not. We get to switch the goddamned channel if we want.

Anyway, I’m half way though the book and I’m waiting for two things:

1. What, specifically, catalyzed Annita’s early self-loathing. (I’ve got my hunches, people!)
2. And how the hell she learned to manage those impulsive, crazy thoughts so she could get a freaking Ph.D and help others free themselves.

Believe me, you’re going to want to read this book. You may just get a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as well.

And, yes, I know the words are backwards.  It’s all good.