Jennette McCurdy’s clickbait memoir title makes perfect sense to me

Tweets calling the memoir ‘petty’ immediately received thousands of responses in McCurdy’s defence, claiming: ‘Unless you’ve experienced abuse from parents, you’ll never understand it.’

Controversy sells, and McCurdy’s book was no exception, racing up the New York Times bestseller list and even selling out on Amazon. 

The thing is, I totally get where she’s coming from. 

Once a Nickelodeon child star, Jennette has now turned confessional memoirist, revealing a childhood of relentless maternal abuse. 

Taught to count calories aged 11, Jennette was conditioned into becoming anorexic by her mother, who insisted on showering her daily, performed regular vaginal exams, forced her into acting, and micromanaged her life. 

The main reason I know my relationship with my father had issues? I don’t miss my dad in the same way I miss my mum

However, Jennette also loved her mum, Debra, and she dreaded the idea of losing her. 

But it was only after Debra’s death in 2013 that Jennette’s been able to see the abuse for what it was. 

I’ve been in the grief club for a long time – my mum died when I was 20 and I lost my dad at 29. 

At first, the grief of both these deaths felt similar – crying, sadness and feeling totally overwhelmed. 

However, as I learnt, a significant aspect of long-term grief is reckoning with the darker parts of the relationships you’ve lost. 

When you’re alone, you delve into it. Like silt from a riverbed, you stir up resentment, guilt, envy, fear, shame – all heavy emotions that are all in need of processing. 

The main reason I know my relationship with my father had issues? I don’t miss my dad in the same way I miss my mum. Instead, there’s relief about no longer existing in a dynamic where I simply wasn’t allowed to be myself. 

Abuse is a heavy word. Admitting you’ve experienced it feels even heavier. 

The first therapist who told me my dad’s behaviour during my childhood was emotionally abusive made me extremely uncomfortable. 

I felt like using that phrase was a fundamental betrayal. Most of the time he’d been loving, generous, and only wanted the best for me.

But five years after Dad’s death, I still suffer from the ill effects of our dynamic. 

There was never any violence, nor anything I perceived as a teenager to be ‘abusive’. I just knew I always walked on eggshells around him. I had to always put his feelings first and never, ever dare to argue. 

I’ve had a lot of therapy since his death, and multiple professionals have confirmed that my dad’s constant defensiveness, harsh temper and inability to accept blame stemmed from his own emotional immaturity. I’ll always believe he didn’t wilfully want to harm me – but I can’t deny he did. 

Growing up, our unspoken family rule was to never address the simmering tension between us. 

So, like Jennette, that’s why I know I need to talk about it now. 

The problem is that nobody wants to believe their parent, partner or friend can be problematic behind closed doors – especially if they’re not the one experiencing it. Some of the people criticising Jennette’s memoir title are likely those who knew her mum, and I’ve received similar criticism. 

This year, when I started speaking more openly about my dad’s behaviour during my childhood, a family friend announced how disappointed in me my parents would be. It hurt – a lot. 

However, there’s so much nuance wrapped up in statements like that. This person knew my parents as adults and as equals. I knew my dad as an authority figure; a man I was always uncertain of, and always saw as a ticking time bomb, waiting to blow. 

I know it’s taboo to speak ill of the dead and believe me, this decision has not been taken lightly. 

But I also know there are countless kids, teens and adults who are so entrenched in similar situations that they don’t realise how far into their future lives the damage might go.  

In her Red Table Talk, Jennette discusses how her codependence and anxious attachment to her mother resulted in her falling into unhealthy relationships as an adult. She’s had to watch out for narcissistic partners as that dynamic feels innately familiar to her. 

For me, it’s all about avoidance. 

Romantic relationships feel dangerous; Iike I have to sacrifice part of myself to be in one. 

Scarred by my dad’s volatility, I feel wholly responsible for a partner’s moods, apologising profusely if they don’t like a restaurant I’ve chosen or a TV show I’ve suggested. I’m beholden to take the blame in situations that I didn’t cause. 

I wish I’d realised earlier that Dad’s behaviour wasn’t my fault, but at least I can learn it now. 

That’s why a book like Jennette’s is so important: it helps others name what they’re experiencing as abuse. 

Nobody else gets to tell you how a parent’s behaviour made you feel. You have the right to own your past experiences, and you have the right to vocalise them in whatever way helps you heal. 

No matter how ‘clickbait’ your chosen words might sound.