About the Book

Q: Will the book be available on paperback, or will there only be a Kindle version?

A:  Both!  I have posted links for both the KINDLE and Paperback version on the 'Buy the Book' tab!

Q: What is the paperback ISBN?

A: The paperback ISBN/EAN13 is ISBN-13: 1532741898 / 9781532741890

Q: Will the book be available to buy from local bookstores?

A: You can order the book using the ISBN, and it will also be available online for order!

Q: How do I contact you?

A: You can e-mail me at KIMBERLYSPRESA (at)GMAIL.COM

Q: What is the ASIN? (Amazon Standard Identification Number) 

A:  The ASIN for the KINDLE version is B01EBBVKOI

            I’m not sure how the idea to write a book about my life first emerged in my brain; perhaps the thought has always been there, in the background, waiting for the right time to make itself a reality.  There were times, over the years, when I would write bits and pieces of my life story in a journal, only to give up on the endeavor a day or two later, because I found it too emotionally draining and difficult.  And it is; it’s difficult to review your own life, to analyze the decisions and failures of your past as if you were a voiceless observer in your own mind.  One might wonder whether if is ever a good idea to go over your past with a fine-toothed comb like I chose to- and I certainly wouldn’t argue with those who are against it.  While writing my book, I hated myself.  I hated the little girl that I used to be, the desperate, helpless teenager that I grew into, and the opinionated, selfish young woman that I became.

            What hurts, sometimes, is that that in many ways I still am that person; I see it in my every day life, the way I sometimes hide myself from my family because I feel overwhelmed with responsibility; the way I thrust my views onto others and refuse to hear theirs; the way I hate to admit I’m wrong in any argument.  While I have matured in many ways, I still feel like a child in others.

            But despite this, for months I worked dedicatedly, writing chapter after chapter of my story, sometimes dragging them out like demons in an exorcism, and other times letting them flow like melting snow in spring.  I grew obsessed with finishing my novel, and sometimes I worked through the night, only looking up from my computer when the sun was rising over the trees outside of my house.  I became tired, and sometimes had glaring migraines that laid me out for days; and at one point, I started to believe that all my writing was killing me… until my husband mentioned to me an interesting point about my writing that I hadn’t realized.

            I had gotten dressed to leave the house to go write at a coffee shop, but before I left, I suddenly felt a wave of exhaustion.  What was the point of me getting all of that stuff out, anyway?  It would probably never be published- it wasn't like I was famous or anything, who would want to read my memoirs?- and even if it was published, no one would find my weird, disjointed life interesting.  Plus, every time I went to write, my husband Scott had to keep charge of the household to make sure everything was kept running for the kids’ sake, and I felt guilty.  Unsure of myself, I expressed my feelings to him, and I mentioned that I might quit writing for a while. 

            “No, you’re not going to stop writing,” said my husband, his eyes soft but stern. “I want you to keep going. I think it’s good for you.”

            “How is it good for me?” I complained, leaning back onto our couch, tired. “All I do is neglect you and the kids.  And I’m so exhausted all of the time…”

            Scott hesitated, and then held my hand in his.  “Honey, do you recall the last time you got sick?”

            I remained still for a minute, thinking.  No, I couldn’t remember. 

            “It’s been a few weeks, honey,” said Scott, “And when you did it then, it had been weeks before that.  This- what you’re doing- I don’t say it’s easy, but something about is good for you.  All of the energy you used to spend on your illness has transferred itself to this.  It’s like… catharsis for you.”

            A small thrill went down my spine.  He was right; it was strange how I hadn’t even noticed I wasn’t purging much anymore.  I had been so occupied with completing my book that I had somehow managed to silence the bulimia, which for fourteen years had reigned supreme in my mind, always demanding, never forgiving.  I couldn’t even remember the last time I had heard the deriding, oily voice of my disorder.

            “I noticed it a while ago, but I didn’t want to jinx it,” continued Scott. “But I thought you should know, now, since you are thinking about stopping.  But please don’t stop, honey.”

            My eyes became misty, and I leaned into my husband, my head snuggled on his chest.  “I won’t stop,” I promised. “Not until I’m done.”