Happy Families

I’m reading this at the moment *hoinks thumb to the left* – Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs. I’ve read all of his other stuff – the most famous being Running With Scissors – but this one if different.

Most of his stuff is autobiographical but also very witty, whereas this is a stark and honest memoir of his relationship with his father – a dark and private man who didn’t seem to have too much interest in his children, he probably only had them because that’s what people did back then.

The book is proving to be a strange experience because it is curiously compelling but at the same time I can’t decide whether I actually like it.

I’m about a quarter of the way in and it’s still dealing with a very young Augusten at the moment. At this point his primary feeling toward his father is adoration, tinged with a little bit of fear. He is so obsessed with his dad that when he is denied physical contact, he steals his clothes and stuffs them with bed sheets to make a fake dad that he can lie in bed and cuddle - he is terrified of this secret being discovered. I think it’s a bit creepy, but then I feel sick at the thought of physical contact with my family. I fact I feel sick at the very concept of “family”.

I hate to be reminded of my own childhood but this book is obviously dragging up memories, some of them best laid to rest. Yesterday, for example, I had a sudden recollection that I was once so angry with my parents I put pins in their bed. I don’t know what they had done to elicit such hatred but the next day I was really scared I’d get walloped. Oddly enough the matter was never referred to - they can’t have failed to notice, there were pins everywhere, but they never said a single word about it!

I’m trying to figure out how old I was when this happened but I can’t remember, I must have been about 10, I think that’s the age when the rot set in. It’s all so idyllic when you’re younger and the biological parent / child bond thing is there, it’s as you get a little older it starts to dishevel. I’m looking forward to the book moving forward and the introduction, hopefully, of some rebellion. I already kind of know the outcome so I know he doesn’t go too crazy, but I’d love if he turned into a David Platt kind of monster child – a love stricken kid who is ignored and turns into parent slaying psychopath, who could resist it? That would make for some seriously compulsive reading, though sadly in this story it’s the mother who goes bonkers.

I’m so glad I’m never going to be a parent.