Review: I’m Glad My Mom Died

• Title:
  • I’m Glad My Mom Died
• Author:
  • Jennette McCurdy
• Release:
  • August 9, 2022
• Format:
  • Audiobook

I’ve heard many times about how amazing it was and was excited to read this. I’ve read and listened to some amazing memoirs and this isn’t one of them; It’s all kinds of fucking terrible. At the time of writing this, I have an hour left of the audiobook. I’ve been listening at 2x speed and it doesn’t feel like it’s been 3 hours. It feels like it’s been 12.

The narration is a lifeless, mostly monotone, and detached resuscitation of events with way too much sideline commentary on every little detail. She applies adult logic to the shit she did as a child; implying she was hyper-aware, well past her age as a 6-year-old. She then goes on to explain how clueless she is about the world, even as a teen and young adult. It’s clear from the start that you’re not getting even remotely close to an accurate telling of her story.

I guess that most of the people praising this memoir don’t read books or memoirs, and wouldn’t know a good read from a hole in the ground. That, or they grew up watching her, or know of her and have developed some parasocial relationship. More than anything, however, I think it’s people who’re excited to be able to hear about the fucked up childhood of somebody famous and it has little to do with the actual quality (or lack of) of this memoir.

This entire memoir feels like whining with extra details thrown in to make it extra pitiable and emotional. You’re not special, you’re not the only one who’s had a fucked up childhood, and you’ve had far more opportunities than most of us ever will. Honestly, this book reminded me of some lyrics from the song Hate Season by Ces Cru. “Boo-Hoo! You had a rough life as a kid? What do you want a fucking hug homie? All of us did!” Cry me a fucking river and then drown in it.

If you want an actual quality memoir, I highly recommend Midnight Calling: Diary of a Drug Smuggler’s Daughter or Glue.

Side note; I also wanted to address the shit-eating comment she made about somebody who lost a beloved cat trying to sympathize with her as not being on the same level as her losing her mother. Sincerely, from the bottom of my heart; FUCK YOU! Do fucking tell me about how your narcissistic, abusive, parasite of a mother who brainwashed you, gave you an eating disorder, stunted your growth as a person, fondled you, and projected her wants and desires onto you, so she could live vicariously through you isn’t on the same level of family as my cat is to me. My cat is my family, she’s my fur child. Are her hugs, kisses, and affection not valid because we’re not the same species, or not related by blood? ‘Cause this entire memoir is a shining example of blood ≠ family.