The book’s title might be something like:
All the Lies About Linda Lloyd:
Links Between the Missing Self
Peritrauma of Child Abuse
That Begins at Birth
How do we tell a truth from a lie? And does it really matter if we can or if we do? I never knew either of my parents to EVER tell a lie. They appeared incapable of lying. Yet the irony is that their entire lives, and therefore my entire 18 years of childhood with them, WAS a lie. It was some strange form of backwards reality where truth was absent and the lie was real and none of us knew it. We all existed in the lie together without another frame of reference, so we all believed the BIG LIE together. In this we were certainly consistent, and maybe it was that consistency that saved me.
I was born into time but I slipped out of its grasp immediately. My memories are therefore coincidental, meaning not that they are insignificant, but that they will always exist not as a string of pearls, but as the individual grains of sand that lie either upon the ocean floor, on its beaches, or in some transitional place in between. They are like the knots on a string but cut apart, left only as knots with no string in between them. One could hold them all in one’s hand at the same time, and they would all be equal. This is also something I cannot change because this is the way both they and my brain that holds them got made. Back in those long ago and early days. One by one from the moment I was born and my mother didn’t even know it.