Reading parts of this book was like a weird insight into my own brain. So many points I thought, yet, thought that, felt that, embarassed by that. My depression was bad, but not to the point of institutionalizing me. Sally Brampton’s memoir is powerful, very powerful. Sally wrote heavily about the effect of growing up abroad and going to boarding school. Again parallels with my life and moving, she talks openly about having strange but normal to her experiences.
My childhood in all its various countries was, in many ways, a privileged existence. We lived in large and often beautiful houses. We had servants. We travelled the world. The expatriate life can be astonishingly glamorous although it can, equally, be wretched. Nobody mentions the wretchedness.
The bit that really got me thinking, was her definition of fine. Fine. I’m Fine. Fine. A word I frequently overuse, especially when I do want to hide behind myself. Currently trying to stop saying it.