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I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl

I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl

3.9 22
by Kelle Groom

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A heartfelt, unflinchingly honest account of addiction, maternal love, and redemption from poet and memoirist Kelle Groom.


A heartfelt, unflinchingly honest account of addiction, maternal love, and redemption from poet and memoirist Kelle Groom.

Editorial Reviews

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"I can't believe you did this twice," Groom says to her mother in the midst of giving birth to her son. At 19, this new mom is already an out-of-control alcoholic, apparently even immune to rehab. She had begun drinking four years before, loving the sense of warmth, confidence, and ultimately the numbness that it seemed to provide. In her alcoholic haze, she doesn't yet realize her decision to abandon her son for adoption will haunt her for decades, nor can she know that when her toddler son dies of leukemia, all the fear, desperation, and guilt that had been festering for years will finally explode and send her spinning into a freefall of self-destruction. She only knows that her nonstop drinking brings her ever closer to some almost inconceivable breaking point. Only one thing saves her: the journal she began keeping during her pregnancy and continued through all the dark years of her loss. "I was afraid to stop typing," she writes. "I was afraid I'd start to die."

Expanded from a much-praised Ploughshares essay, I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl is an unflinching yet deeply poetic memoir that captures the rawness and urgency of addiction as well as the tenderness and heartbreak surrounding the loss of a son. The grace and power of Groom's voice and the quality of her writing will linger in readers' minds.

Publishers Weekly
Groom, a poet (Underwater City, etc.), gave birth to a son at age 19. Her aunt and uncle adopted him, named him Tommy, and took him with them to Massachusetts, where he died of leukemia 14 months later, in 1982. The backstory: Groom began drinking at age 14 ("My role model became the girl in Go Ask Alice"), had her first blackout at 15, was in the throes of alcoholism when she had Tommy. Although Groom tries to stop drinking the year Tommy dies, she's unable; at 20 she was abducted and raped. But by 1984 she's achieved sobriety, found a job, and made friends. Things get better: she finishes college, then grad school, and gets a job she likes at an artists' residency center. Through it all, she wonders about the details of her son's brief life. Groom moves back and forth between present and past, revealing tidbits of who she once was and who she's become. Her writing is a wonderfully compelling mix of simple and lyrical: there are stream-of-consciousness fragments ("Chain-link fence, metal door like on a submarine") and contemplative sentences ("I hoped that by writing about Tommy, I could find him"). (June)
Kirkus Reviews

A critically acclaimed poet's account of her anguished descent into alcoholism and self-destruction.

When Groom (Five Kingdoms, 2009, etc.) gave birth to her one and only child at 19, she was already in the fierce clutches of alcohol dependency. Through a series of impressionistic, loosely chronological recollections, the author describes the early experimentations with drinking that evolved into full-blown addiction. Shy and socially awkward, the author—who took her first drink at 14 and had the first of many blackouts a year later—saw alcohol as liquid empowerment. It was, she recalls, a "potion that chang[ed] me, [made] me unafraid." The greater her need for alcohol became, the more out of control her life became. Groom was increasingly drawn into questionable friendships, unhealthy relationships and life-threatening situations—extreme inebriation led her to be gang-raped and almost murdered. Her pregnancy was the eye in the increasingly violent storm of her life. But soon after she gave her son to her aunt and uncle, she became overwhelmed by a profound guilt that exacerbated a propensity toward self-mutilation. After one particularly gruesome cutting episode, Groom went to a rehabilitation center. As she recovered from alcoholism, she began to struggle with the trauma of losing her son, first to adoption, then to infantile leukemia. Wracked with self-hatred, she cycled in and out of school and moved from one low-paying job to another. Eventually, she gained the courage to embark on a two-decades-long journey to learn about her son and understand why he became ill. The language of this brooding and obsessive memoir is exquisitely compressed, yet beneath the taut imagery and diction are palpable, powerful surges of emotions.

A visceral, darkly lyrical narrative that reads with the immediacy and rawness of an open wound.

Madge McKeithen
The "material" of Groom's life…will immediately engage some readers and may cause others to dismiss her book as "yet another addiction memoir." But Groom's writing…elevates this story far above "same old, same old." The writer knows what she's doing, giving us the experience of a woman who often did not know at all what she was doing. Her image-rich prose and unconventional sense of the paragraph surprise and resonate.
—The New York Times
From the Publisher
"Poet Groom's stunning memoir reads more like poetry than prose and leaves the 'brain singing with neurons like a city at night.'" ---Booklist

Product Details

Free Press
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
8.48(w) x 5.74(h) x 0.95(d)

Read an Excerpt

Evidence of Things Unseen Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. —HEBREWS 11:1

Morphine makes me weightless, airborne. Like a spider. I rest in a corner of the high ceiling, look down on my body on the white hospital bed. It is just one shot, one needle through my skin. But even nine months pregnant, my frame is small—the weight all baby. So the effect of the drug is a flood in my veins. I'd like to walk down the street feeling this light. I'd like to be a passenger in a dusty car on a dirt road, and see a veil of trees, the clearing inside. Graveyard of cars arranged in a kind of circle. All the engines lifted out, windows dull with dirt. In that clearing I know I could find evidence of things unseen. Me on the bed waiting for my cervix to be effaced. Waiting to open like a door, ten centimeters. Then I can push.

"I can't believe you did this twice," I say to my mother after I come down from the ceiling, and a truck stuck in the sand guns it below my belly button. Digs in, stalls, digs. My mother laughs. "You forget," she says. Pulls her chair closer. We're both mothers now. In the circle that the bed makes for us, she's not mad at me for not marrying, not appalled by my sexuality, my basic biology, my lack of restraint. She's helping me count contractions, her knees a few inches away from me in her beige pantsuit. One of the outfits she wears to teach first grade. At school, the children all sit in a circle around her. Once, her school gave her an award; they took her picture as she leaned against a tree, smiling. Now it's 1981. Despite the pain, I'm happy to be here with her. There's an easiness, as if we're on a brief vacation together, like friends. She's younger than I am now, about to hold her first grandchild, about to let me give him away. My mom will never touch him again. She'll blow up the snapshot of my son that my aunt and uncle will mail to us, frame it, place it on the dresser in her bedroom. The enlarging process increasing the light in the photo, so that he's surrounded by glowing circles, like snow is falling on him at night.

My son has his eyes closed now. He's close to leaving my nineteen- year-old body. Ripples wash over his skin that no one has ever touched, except me. We're still together. My darkness keeps him safe, fed. My body does everything right: carrying, feeding, singing a water song. My heart counted on like a lullaby. In the outside world, my practical skills are limited—I don't know how to keep house or manage money, sometimes I can barely speak. But in my son's world, my body has everything he needs. I belong to him.

I'd had an overwhelming need to push for what felt like a long time, but the nurses kept saying it was too early, "Don't push." When a nurse looks between my legs, she's surprised. "The baby's coming," she says. "Push." Her tone is controlled but urgent. They need to move fast. The medical people still have to get me into the delivery room. They scoot me onto a rolling bed, push me down the hall into another room. My mother goes to sit with my dad in the waiting room. I don't know who decides I'm going to do this alone. Even my own doctor isn't on duty. The hands that lift me are speedy, rushed. My bare feet are put into cold metal stirrups, which feels frightening. As if something is about to happen that I will not be able to stand unless I am restrained. A lamp is floodlight bright. I'm glad to push. A couple of minutes go by. I scream once. It's a surprise—no planning, no slow intake of breath. The pain is surprising; my skin about to rip open from my baby's head pushing out. The threshold keeps being raised. I scream again when I tear. And my son is in the world. I thought he would be red with blood or white or wrinkled. Maybe they washed him before I saw him? His skin looks like the skin on apricots. It might have been all the carrot juice I drank. He looks as if he's had a lifetime of good meals.

Then, they take him away. It's probably strange to him too, the first time we've parted since he was an unseen spiral twirling inside. A doctor takes a needle and thread and sews me up. I've been given a numbing shot, but I can still feel the tug of each stitch. The way he makes it tight.

Nurses lift me onto a rolling bed again, take me into a ward of the Navy hospital. One side of the hall is maternity; the other side for women with gynecological problems. Our side is lit up, shining. I fall asleep. But in a few hours, a nurse wakes me up. "Your baby's hungry." My body weeps as if a horse had kicked me between my legs, or bitten me with its huge horse teeth. I am sure that no one in my state should stand up. "You need to stand up," the nurse repeats. "Your baby needs to eat. It's been four hours." My hospital gown is a bloom around my body. I sit up. My feet hang off the bed, and the nurse gives me her arm. She doesn't smile. She's a Navy nurse, a member of the military. I can feel a pool inside my body, a slosh of blood. My breasts leak through my gown. I clutch the nurse's arm. My feet cold on the floor. She walks.

I follow her down the middle of the hall to a room of glass, where we turn right, until we come to a room without glass, a door. I stand inside, teetering beside a sink. Rocking chairs behind me against the wall. "Wait here." She leaves. She comes back with my baby. He is wrapped in a white blanket, that material that feels as if it has clouds in it, hilly and airy at the same time. Someone has wrapped my baby's hands in white gauze, so he won't scratch his face with his fingernails. The nurse points to the sink, the pHisoderm. I soap myself, rinse. Pat my hands dry with a brown paper towel.

My baby's eyes are still closed, and they're big. The arc of his eyelids are little beds where I rest my eyes. He's the most peaceful baby I have ever seen. It's Mom, I want him to know without my saying so. The nurse doesn't know he's being adopted. She doesn't know the mistake she's making. The doctor will come to me later and say I can't hold my baby again, can't feed him. "It could cause you permanent emotional damage," he says. I'm in the TV room when he walks in to tell me this. It's night. The doctor's day is done, but he wants to let me know this now, so I won't expect to feed my son again. The Greatest American Hero is on the TV screen. The actor has the curly yellow hair of an angel, flying around to help people out. "Can I still look at him through the glass?" I ask. The doctor acquiesces. "But just once a day," he says. I'm in the hospital for three days. And it's only this day, this morning, that the nurse will say, "Hold your arms like this," as she holds my son close to her chest. And then she holds him out to me.

Her arms are like bridges, transporting my son to me in this breathing world. I feel as though my vision could fill with white clouds at any moment, that I could fall to the floor. I feel that someone should be steadying me. But then the weight of him is in my hands. And it is like carrying him inside my body—some- thing I already know how to do. There is no thought of letting go. The bones in my arms use all their hardness, my blood, my skin itself, all the force in my body holds him, will keep him safe against any harm. My legs are metal. "You can sit in the rocking chair," the nurse says. I relax against the cushion beneath me, the chair's wooden bars supporting my back like little trees. "Hold his head up," she says, and hands me a bottle. The nurse leaves. We're quiet. My son and I like it, not rushing. I introduce myself for real: "It's Mom." He likes me. I place the bottle on his little rose mouth, let him take the nipple in his mouth. But he's not hungry yet. A little milk comes out on his lips. I don't know how much time I have. I say, his name, "Tommy." I'm the first one to call him by his name. I say, "I love you." I want to take my time, tell him everything. But he's so content. We rock a little. Hang out. We would have been so good together with silences. The nurse comes back.

I never feed him again. No matter how many Kleenexes I put in my bra cups, despite the pills I take to dry up my milk, it leaks through all my clothes. My small breasts become so heavy and hard they are like mini basketballs. I could feed ten babies with this milk. During the day, a nurse brings a heat machine, a bright electric sun, and shines it between my legs to dry my stitches. The curtains are drawn. I can hear my aunt and uncle outside the cloth, the joking about my suntanning machine. They are kind, jubilant to become my baby's parents. His eyes are still closed. During the day, I break the doctor's rule and stand at the glass for every feeding. I dismiss the doctor's warning about causing damage to myself. I need to see my son. It's like the need to push when he was being born. There's no choice. Watch a nurse hold my boy in her arms. Sometimes she stands while she feeds him, sometimes she sits. When she's standing, she holds him up high, as if showing him to someone—a king. Here he is. The nurses scowl at me. But what can they do? One nurse comes to me at night, opens my curtain. She sits on my bed as if she is my friend. "Would you like to talk?" she asks. "No," I say. Maybe she was doing something extra, trying to be nice, helpful. But I am in no mood for pity. At the glass, I watch the nurse give my son a bottle, my breasts leaking dark quarters through my bra, my gown. I stand there, and watch him held in her hard arms and think, I can do that. I can do that.

On the fourth day, I am discharged. The air is tense when my family arrives—my mother and father, my aunt and uncle— because they are afraid. They are afraid that I will take him in my arms and not let go. That we will hitch a ride out of town, and I will bleed all over the front seat, massaging my uterus with one hand. Trying to bring it back to size. Calm the blood down. My breasts have all the food my son needs. And finally he'll be able to latch on, to relieve this pressure, this store of milk I've been saving for him. The nurse shows my aunt and uncle my son's belly button, she explains how to care for it, where we connected. She opens his blanket to do this, my naked boy. My aunt has clothes for him. She has a baby snowsuit. It envelops him in cushy plastic. Like an Eskimo baby. My mom is motioning me out of the way. But the nurse who never smiled, she says, "No matter who is adopting the baby, the mother takes him out of the hospital." The mother, the mother. That's me. I'm visible again. It's a rule, so no one can disagree. I make my arms into the shape of a cradle. The nurse places my son in my arms. His snowsuit is soft and puffy. He looks comfortable nestled in there, eyes closed. I'm not yet afraid of doing anything wrong, of holding on to him. I know this is just for a few moments, and it's not private, but I'm so grateful to have him back. Light and space around us, despite the others crowding. I walk down the white hallway. They are all around me, anxious. But we are calm. Then the front door is open, and the air blows cold on us. I'm at the threshold, stepping onto the hospital porch, and my mom commands, "Hand Julia the baby." And I do. But it is as if I am an orange, an apple, some fruit with skin that a knife has been taken to, cutting. The watered air around me is the seen world. The porch has a few wide steps, as if the hospital was just a house. My aunt is smiling so wide, her smile is all I can see of her face, except her eyes locked down on him. In the world, he belongs to her now.


What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher
"Poet Groom's stunning memoir reads more like poetry than prose and leaves the 'brain singing with neurons like a city at night.'" —-Booklist

Meet the Author

Kelle Groom, the author of three poetry collections, has been published in The New Yorker and Ploughshares, among other magazines. Her work was included in Best American Poetry 2010 and has received special mention in the Pushcart Prize and Best American Non-Required Reading anthologies. She lives in Florida.

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I Wore the Ocean in the Shape of a Girl 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 20 reviews.
ElleandPaul More than 1 year ago
Groom's writing style brings you to the moment. So easily is the reader transported into the heart of this young woman, bright and adventurous by nature but through the culture and mindset that would define a decade. I WORE THE OCEAN IN THE SHAPE OF A GIRL offers the reader a bird's eye view of Kelle Groom's progressive optimism as she reinvents herself in time to fulfill her destiny-- and for the writer, or most of us for that matter--- the best of all possible worlds.
harstan More than 1 year ago
When Kellie was fifteen years old, she discovered the social intimacy of alcohol. Her life for several years afterward revolved around the next drink instead of school as she becomes an alcoholic who often went comatose in bars. At nineteen she gives birth to Tommy. However, her Uncle Mark and Aunt Julia take Tommy to live with him in Massachusetts as her parents insist she cannot take care of herself let alone a newborn. Fourteen moments later Tommy dies from leukemia, but his biological mother is kept in the dark as she struggles to sober up. Instead she is raped and turns to drink for solace. By 1984, Kellie dries out as she drops her drinking buddies. She finds employment and makes new supporting friends. Kellie graduates from college and obtains a position involving art. However, except for fleeting moments in her son's first days of existence and what her family has shared, she missed her child's brief life. Thus, she hopes this memoir will provide her some solace though she knows she can never fully gain that early wonder. This profound memoir deftly rotates between the past and present as Ms. Groom shares how far into the abyss she fell and how difficult it was to climb out. Readers will empathize with the author as her grief, remorse and hope deeply surface when she muses about Tommy. Pulling no punches about the cost to her soul (and to her family) of her alcoholic years, Ms. Groom writes a heart felt biography as she searches for her Tommy who she regretfully missed when he was alive. Harriet Klausner
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I like it! It was a very nice, but sad story.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book just looks wrong and i couldnt picure me readin it
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
As much as I loved the description, I couldn't get into this book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
McGuffyAnn More than 1 year ago
Everyone has a story to tell. Kelle Groom goes beyond that. She tells a tragic story in painful increments of beautiful prose. The result is an amazing book by a very special woman. At the very early age of 15, Kelle finds alcohol as a way to express her. She loses herself to it, not realizing it until it is too late. Already an alcoholic, she has a baby at the age of nineteen. Her family supports her, as her aunt adopts the infant. Adding more sorrow to Kelle's painful life, the baby is diagnosed at nine months with leukemia, and dies at 14 months of age. Kelle loses him twice. Already out of control, Kelle is in a freefall downward spiral, fast on her way to self- destruction. It takes the real desire to stop drinking and the connection with the right people who can actually help Kelle attain sobriety. This is a unique story on many levels, all heart-rending, all gut wrenching. But at the very heart of this book is Kelle the mother, who survived it all, who needed acceptance and forgiveness ultimately from herself. She did survive, and she found the courage to share her story. She gives hope a new voice. You cannot read this book and not be somehow changed by it.
CorporateHippie More than 1 year ago
I attended a reading by the writer in Brooklyn, but have never met her personally, and have nothing to gain or lose by writing this review. This memoir tells a very painful story, but in an artful way that builds up to an unexpected climax. Each chapter (there are 32) is like a prose poem in itself. After reading the whole book I went back and read individual chapters to appreciate the metaphors and the language. I highly recommend this book to readers who enjoy memoir and poetic writing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
booknookery More than 1 year ago
Hunter53 More than 1 year ago
To be savored in small bites. Original turns of phrase punctuate this haunting, yet hopeful, memoir. Stirring.
BellaRuth More than 1 year ago
While the story that Kelle Groom reveals can be harrowing, it is tempered by the writing -- writing that is so achingly beautiful, it made me realize the meaning of that phrase. My heart felt heavy as the narrative unfolded, surprises in every chapter, but the writing -- the metaphors, the descriptions, a language all her own -- made me want to savor it, re-read passages, read it aloud. As sad a story as it is, I was compelled to keep reading, to stay with her as she finds that young girl she was, finds her and forgives her.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
l_manning More than 1 year ago
This book is a memoir. It was written by a poet, and it's easy to see that in the writing. This was not an easy read by any means. The narrative flows from point in time to point in time with regularity. The book tells the story of an alcoholic, through her treatment and relapse(s). However, most the narrative involves the son she gave up for adoption to her aunt and uncle. Her son dies very young of leukemia, and her desire to reconnect with this missing part of her self directs her actions throughout her life. Honestly, I don't really feel qualified to review this book. I'm not even sure I got it. This book felt so dark through most of it, as if she could never chase away her demons. I almost want to talk to her now, and see if she has found any peace. Despite all this, I found myself in tears at the end, and not necessarily sad ones. It's not a clear cut happy ending, but I did find some comfort. The writing is very stylized. Although I find the subject matter difficult to read, the world themselves were beautiful. It's easy to see the poet coming through. While this isn't going to be a fun read necessarily, I do think it is worth reading. There is some satisfaction at seeing her work past her alcoholism and learning more about her son. So while it's not a breezy read, I did enjoy it. Galley provided by publisher for review.
FeatheredQuillBookReviews More than 1 year ago
As readers all know, there are books out there on the market that entertain, romance, thrill, scare, and teach. This is a unique book, however, because it does each and every one of those things and more. Using a powerful "voice," it will be an impossible struggle for many readers as they try to figure out how to put it down; or, whether or not they can continue reading. Kelle Groom bares all, from mistakes to tragedies, to triumphs and pain. The Groom family history is told through various stories including that of Kelle's son's cancer. The author leads readers down her horrific path that began as early as fifteen, when Kelle decided that only with alcohol could she make it through the day. This is a young woman who blacked out in high school, and hooked up with males that made sure to "egg" her on and hurt her as best they could. This was an empty shell of a girl; this was a life that was already over, with Kelle simply waiting for the end to come. At nineteen - who knows why, or what Higher Power could've thought it would be a good thing - Kelle became pregnant and made a good choice, finally, by realizing that there was no way she could support or care for a child. With the custody being given over to her Aunt and Uncle, Kelle's son Tommy went to live in a much happier environment. The absolute worst would come to pass, however, when Tommy died of Leukemia at only fourteen months of age. Kelle, through journals that she kept, has taken a great deal of strength to write this story. Some will despise Kelle for what she did; some will be supportive and happy for her recovery. While others will read about the tragedies and horror that Kelle went through which included abuse, rape, alcoholism, and abduction, and find themselves sickened beyond belief. Kelle is very open and honest throughout - sometimes brutally. She touches upon the horrors that exist in this world - horrors that others are living through right this minute. She still searches for the reasons for it all, and for her Tommy whose soul was taken to a better place. Kelle Groom searches for her son's body and the truth, which she may never find. But having the ability and the power to come "out" and get "clean" is something that can not be "reviewed." It is something that the reader has to experience for herself. Quill Says: This is an exquisitely written, humbling, and frightening story of survival and redemption, from a woman who may forever have a brutal path to walk.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Same with the one under my rate and review. Hope u can get into the book. I liked the discription but the book was so boring. Good luck reading the book! Hope u like it! But I hate it! I love my review not the book!