For a long time, I carried that feeling with me. I'd avoid reading when I could because it felt like I wasn't smart enough for it. I saw books as a reminder of something I couldn't quite do right. But over time, something changed. I started watching horror movies and realized I loved the way fear could be built up and the way tension could make my heart race. That same feeling—suspense, unpredictability, that thrill of not knowing what comes next—I found it in horror books too. And books? They go even further. They let me imagine the scenes in more graphic, detailed ways than any movie ever could.

Now, I enjoy reading—especially horror. It's no longer about being good at it. It's about how the story makes me feel, how I can escape into a world that's terrifying but fascinating. Reading isn't a competition anymore. It's personal. It's mine.

"Above me, wind does its best

to blow leaves off

the aspen tree a month too soon

No use wind. All you succeed

in doing is making music, the noise

of failure growing beautiful" (156).

Not only that this poem speak volumes, it also allows the reader to be more involved, as if the reader is in Lamott's writing class.

One of the most haunting moments comes from a former roommate telling her, “Shari, I don't know who this man is, but he sounds . . . like a demon” (Franke, 246). This quote refers to Derek: a man who is introduced in the memoir as a former church member but then commits crimes involving stalking and sexual assault toward Franke. Ironically, the description of him as a “demon” can be portrayed to have a deeper meaning as a flashback of Franke’s upbringing. It reflects the evil Franke has faced—not just from Derek, but also from her mother and the religious structures that allowed abuse to persist.  

Franke also uses suspense to engage readers, especially in the aftermath of Ruby’s arrest. When Franke prays, “Please God, let the children be okay” (260), the italics emphasize her desperation and lingering indoctrination. Even as the truth about her mother is exposed, she still turns to faith, revealing how deeply Ruby and the LDS Mormon Church conditioned her. This moment highlights the internal conflict she faces—recognizing the abuse while struggling to let go of the beliefs that shaped her. 

The book’s sense of closure comes in one of the most striking moments: Ruby’s sentencing. As the court delivers justice, Franke thinks, “Ruby, you did this to yourself” (274). This final acknowledgement of her mother’s guilt is significant. Franke has spent the entire book refusing to call Ruby “Mom”, even when discussing her when she was younger. This is a deliberate choice that reinforces her emotional detachment. By addressing her by name, she asserts her independence and refuses to see Ruby as a mother figure.

The conclusion delivers a powerful message through vivid storytelling, emotional depth, and suspenseful pacing. Franke masterfully connects post-events to their inevitable consequences, showing how abuse, denial, and justice are intertwined. By the end, she achieves a clear sense of closure, not just for the narrative but for herself, finally breaking free from her mother’s control.

they won't be here for long

they still choose to live

their brightest lives

-sunflowers"

Rupi Kaur’s poem about sunflowers speaks to me on such a deep, emotional level because it reminds me of the kind of resilience I want to carry through life. The lines capture something beautiful and heartbreaking at the same time — the idea that life is short, but we can still choose joy, beauty, and strength anyway. Sometimes, when I think about how fast time moves or how uncertain the future feels — especially during moments of stress or sadness — I find it easy to feel overwhelmed or hopeless. But this poem is a gentle reminder that even in the face of impermanence, I can still bloom. Just like sunflowers, I can stand tall, turn toward the light, and choose to live with brightness and purpose, even when things aren’t perfect or guaranteed.