Sickened: The True Story of a Lost Childhood [NOOK Book]

Overview

A young girl is perched on the cold chrome of yet another doctor’s examining table, missing yet another day of school. Just twelve, she’s tall, skinny, and weak. It’s four o’clock, and she hasn’t been allowed to eat anything all day. Her mother, on the other hand, seems curiously excited. She's about to suggest open-heart surgery on her child to "get to the bottom of this." ...
See more details below
Sickened: The True Story of a Lost Childhood

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$11.99
BN.com price

Overview

A young girl is perched on the cold chrome of yet another doctor’s examining table, missing yet another day of school. Just twelve, she’s tall, skinny, and weak. It’s four o’clock, and she hasn’t been allowed to eat anything all day. Her mother, on the other hand, seems curiously excited. She's about to suggest open-heart surgery on her child to "get to the bottom of this." She checks her teeth for lipstick and, as the doctor enters, shoots the girl a warning glance. This child will not ruin her plans.

Sickened

From early childhood, Julie Gregory was continually X-rayed, medicated, and operated on—in the vain pursuit of an illness that was created in her mother’s mind. Munchausen by proxy (MBP) is the world’s most hidden and dangerous form of child abuse, in which the caretaker—almost always the mother—invents or induces symptoms in her child because she craves the attention of medical professionals. Many MBP children die, but Julie Gregory not only survived, she escaped the powerful orbit of her mother's madness and rebuilt her identity as a vibrant, healthy young woman.

Sickened is a remarkable memoir that speaks in an original and distinctive Midwestern voice, rising to indelible scenes in prose of scathing beauty and fierce humor. Punctuated with Julie's actual medical records, it re-creates the bizarre cocoon of her family's isolated double-wide trailer, their wild shopping sprees and gun-waving confrontations, the astonishing naïveté of medical professionals and social workers. It also exposes the twisted bonds of terror and love that roped Julie's family together—including the love that made a child willing to sacrifice herself to win her mother's happiness.

The realization that the sickness lay in her mother, not in herself, would not come to Julie until adulthood. But when it did, it would strike like lightning. Through her painful metamorphosis, she discovered the courage to save her own life—and, ultimately, the life of the girl her mother had found to replace her. Sickened takes us to new places in the human heart and spirit. It is an unforgettable story, unforgettably told.


From the Hardcover edition.
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
In the hands of a less skillful writer, Sickened might have turned into one of those childhood memoirs, filled with stomach-churning images of unspeakable abuse, that has spawned a genre of their own. As it is, Julie Gregory's story, lyrically narrated in the pitch-perfect cadence of bewildered youth, soars above its difficult subject matter: growing up as a victim of a bizarre disorder called Munchausen by proxy.

Perpetrators of MBP (usually mothers) satisfy their need for attention by faking or inducing illness in their children. For years, Sandy Gregory (herself a victim of incest, rape, and child abuse) subjected her daughter to endless doctor's visits, tests, and unnecessary medical procedures. Julie's astonishing ordeal begins with matchstick "lollypop" poisonings. From there, she is routinely starved, her nose is surgically broken to correct an imaginary deviated septum, she is denied treatment for a broken wrist, and she undergoes an excruciating heart catheterization -- which, to Sandy's great disappointment, does not indicate the need for further surgery!

Betrayed by every adult in her life -- from her passive, complicit father to the battalion of teachers, doctors, and nurses who blindly buy her mother's act -- Julie is, nonetheless, shackled to Sandy by a powerful bond of codependent love. She manages to escape her crazy home, but she is an adult before she learns the truth behind her bizarre upbringing and begins a painful journey back to physical and mental health. It is Gregory's fervent hope that her story, harrowing as it is, will unmask this insidious disorder that robs children of their youth, their innocence, and -- far too often -- their lives. Anne Markowski

USA Today
The most compelling element of Julie Gregory's Sickened: The Memoir of a Munchausen by Proxy Childhood comes not from the abuse she suffered at the hands of her mother. Rather, it is the way Gregory captures how parenting a child near death can be alluring to a mentally ill woman. And if the child doesn't cooperate -- in fact, she possesses good health -- then starve, hit and terrorize the child into mimicking the necessary symptoms. — Deirdre Donahue
The Washington Post
Sickened is absorbing, partly because the sheer horror of the tale exerts an uneasy fascination, partly because of the liveliness of Gregory's writing. We learn that her mother, too, was an abused child, but even though the reasons for her behavior can be explained, on the deepest level they remain unfathomable. Sickened does, however, provide an incisive portrait of a damaged, and toxic, woman. Most movingly, the author gives full weight not only to her family's violence but also to the frustrated, distorted but nonetheless genuine love among its members. One wishes this book could get into the hands of all the suffering children who need it. — Juliet Wittman
VOYA
Heart catheters, beta-blockers, mysterious white pills that go under the tongue-these were all part of Julie Gregory's teenage life. Was she truly ill? Medical records state that nothing amiss was ever found except a rapid heartbeat while standing. All her symptoms were reported by her mother, who even went so far as to insist on open-heart surgery for her child. Fortunately, the doctors did not agree to do the drastic surgery. The only time that Gregory ever felt normal was when she was in the hospital for tests. There she was able to eat three balanced meals a day, a luxury rarely afforded her at home where she often ate a breakfast of a spoonful of Cool Whip. Now an advocate for children living with a Munchausen by Proxy parent, Gregory grew up in hell. She tells her story complete with copies of medical reports that support her claims, assertions that her mother denies. Teenagers will be drawn by Gregory's spare telling of her abuse. Other teens who might be suffering in silence as the author did for years will realize that they are not alone and reach out. This memoir will appeal to those readers who enjoy books with a psychological theme or those who are drawn to child abuse sagas such as A Child Called It (Health Communications, 1995). With all the media publicity and the strength of Gregory's storytelling, this book will be a hit with many readers. VOYA CODES: 4Q 4P S A/YA (Better than most, marred only by occasional lapses; Broad general YA appeal; Senior High, defined as grades 10 to 12; Adult-marketed book recommended for Young Adults). 2003, Bantam, 244p., Ages 15 to Adult.
—Lynn Evarts
Library Journal
Gregory, who unlike many victims managed to survive Munchausen by proxy, a particularly insidious form of child abuse, recounts her crazy childhood and slow journey to health as an adult. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal
Adult/High School-Gregory's childhood was marred by a particularly insidious form of child abuse. Her mother used a combination of malnutrition, overwork, and prescription drugs to keep the girl in a perpetual state of ill health. They spent their spare time visiting pediatricians and heart specialists, with her mother ratcheting up the symptoms and possible cures, even begging a doctor to perform open-heart surgery. Ironically, when Gregory did need medical care after breaking a wrist, she was ignored for hours by her mother, who insisted that the injury might just be a sprain, even though the bone was poking out from the skin. It was not until the young woman moved away from their isolated family home and attended college that she was able to piece together the events of her childhood and move forward with her own life. She relays her story not as a victim but as a strong survivor. Her narrative style maintains the child's inner voice, necessary to help readers remember that she was too young to realize that she wasn't really sick. By the time she began to grow suspicious, she had a lengthy paper trail of symptoms that kept the medical profession convinced that she really was sick, despite her growing protests. The author currently serves as an advocate for other Munchausen survivors. As well as being a fascinating read, this book could give others in similar situations a lifeline back to health.-Jamie Watson, Enoch Pratt Free Library, Baltimore Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Horrific first-person account of child abuse by a survivor with keen self-awareness, a sharp eye for detail, and an original, poetic voice. In Munchausen by Proxy (MBP), a caretaker, usually the mother, falsifies or induces physical and/or mental illness in a dependent person, usually a child, to gain sympathy from others and control over the dependent. Gregory’s mother did this to her for many years, dragging her to doctor after doctor, coaching her to act sick, punishing her harshly if she didn’t do it convincingly enough, demanding endless treatments, tests, and invasive procedures, including surgery. At first the illnesses were relatively minor—nausea, headaches, allergies—but as her mother’s collection of home medical books provided information about more symptoms and tests, they escalated. When heart catheterization failed to reveal the abnormalities the mother insisted were there, she demanded that open-heart surgery be performed on her daughter. It was not, but nose surgery later was. At home, Gregory suffered other forms of child abuse, including beatings and semi-starvation. That she survived this miserable childhood seems remarkable, for as Marc Feldman (Psychiatry and Behavioral Neurobiology/Univ. of Alabama) notes in his foreword, many victims of MBP do not. Amazingly, Gregory never stopped loving her manipulative mother and ineffectual but sometimes brutal father. When she learned about MBP in a college psychology course and grasped what had happened to her, she began gathering her childhood medical records, some of which she has inserted into relevant passages here. Her attempts as an adult to reconnect with her parents were at best bitterly disappointing anddeeply disturbing in the case of her mother, who had begun MBP behaviors with an 11-year-old girl in her care. A painful but wonderfully written memoir that should create greater awareness of a bizarre disorder; that so many medical professionals and social workers were oblivious to what was really going on in the Gregory household attests to the need. (8 pp. b&w photos)
From the Publisher
“A painful but wonderfully written memoir that should create greater awareness of a bizarre disorder… Keen self-awareness, a sharp eye for details, and an original, poetic voice.”
--Kirkus Reviews

“This story of unfathomable child abuse is told with remarkable wit, compassion, and courage. It’s a work of beauty from a beast of a childhood.”
--Augusten Burroughs, author of Running with Scissors and Dry

“Like some Diane Arbus photograph come to life, Julie Gregory's Sickened offers us a portrait of quintessential American Disturbos in all their tender, heinous can't-look-and-can't-look-away glory. A miraculous book by a woman whose very survival is itself a miracle.”
--Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight

“Set in a southern-culture-on-the-skids world reminiscent of J.T. Leroy, Sickened is written with a lyrical directness that is both riveting and horrific. Julie Gregory reminds us that those who find the courage to slay the dragons of their past and stop the cycle of abuse are the true heroes of the world.”
--Ann Magnuson, actress, singer, writer

"A stunning account by a courageous woman who journeyed from the depths of hell to reclaim her own power and worth. Julie Gregory casts an extraordinary beacon of healing. You will be hearing a lot about this one.”
--Alan Cohen, author of I Had It All the Time

"A born storyteller with perfect pitch, Julie Gregory guides the reader through this surreal form of cruelty, in which the ultimate weapon is the scalpel, with originality, gusto and heart-stopping courage."
--Sylvia Fraser, author of My Father's House: A Memoir of Incest and of Healing

"Gripping self-disclosure by a remarkable young woman . . . Sickened will surely and finally impact the proper diagnosis and treatment of children caught in the terror of MBP."
--Chris Monaco, Ph.D., Director, Childhelp USA National Child Abuse Hotline

“This searing and beautiful memoir represents a genuine triumph of the human spirit.”
--Marc D. Feldman, M.D.

From the Hardcover edition.

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307490926
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 11/19/2008
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 256
  • Sales rank: 39,299
  • File size: 4 MB

Meet the Author

JULIE GREGORY grew up in southern Ohio. She is now an expert writer and spokesperson on Munchausen by proxy and an advocate
in MBP cases. A graduate student in psychiatry at Sheffield University, England, she currently lives in the United States.


From the Hardcover edition.
Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

The part I hated most was the shaving.

I mean, if you're a twelve-year-old girl, how much hair can you have on your chest? But they'd lather me up anyway and run a new plastic Bic between my barely-there breasts. They needed me smooth and hairless so the little white pads would stick to those points constellated around my heart and record my beats. And while they were preparing, I'd hover above myself, intent on studying the nubby white ceiling tiles, imagining a room where I lived, inverted, upon the ceiling, away from the clutter of our trailer, away from the hospital--just floating in pure, white peace.

The scent of the shaving cream pulls me back down from the ceiling: It's the same kind Dad used. Every day before dawn, he'd erupt in violent heaving and crawl off to the toilet trying to peel the Agent Orange from his lungs. Sometimes the sounds of his retching would come out the mouths of those elusive figures in my dreams, the worlds between sleep and wake merging seamlessly for a few groggy moments. He'd usually shave after he puked.

In an unspoken understanding, the examining room nurse folds a giant pile of cream from the can onto her palm, so much that as she smooths an inch-thick trail down my chest, our naked skin never touches.

Eventually the tide of Agent Orange would ebb and he'd lean dizzy in the doorway and say, "I'm selling Buicks, Sissy. Get it? Selling Buicks? Buuicck. Buuuuiiick." Then he'd cackle and brush the back of his meaty fist across his mouth.

The nurse picks up a new blue-handled blade and runs it neatly down my sternum, slicing out another clean, pink row.

And what do you do at seven in the morning but laugh with your big, lumbering father, who's pretending the doorway of the bathroom is a lamppost and that he, leaning on it like a drunk, is hawking Buicks in his best barker accent?

And then they're done. The white pads have been spread with a clear magnetic jelly and pressed on to six different locations. Their wires run into one larger river of wires that flows from under my sternum down my abdomen, emerging out the zipper of my pants like I had some elaborate cable TV pay-per-view setup in there. The rubber-coated electrodes feed into a tape recorder that fits snugly into a rectangular leather harness; it looks like a purse. I wear the strap over my shoulder, and while my seventh-grade life ticks away, so do the heartbeats that go with it, right into the box.

For starters, I was a sick kid. Beanpole skinny and as fragile as a microwave souffle, I bruised easy and wilted in a snap. Kids in school used to walk straight up to me and ask point-blank if I was anorexic. But I wasn't; just sick. And Mom bent over backwards trying to find out what was wrong with me. It wasn't just that I had a heart problem. It was everything rolled into one, bleeding together with so many indistinguishable layers that to get to the root of it was impossible, like peeling off every transparent layer of an onion, and when I got old enough to peel the onion myself, every layer made me cry.

I was conceived in the sickly womb of a sickly mother--who starved herself and in turn starved me. She was highly anemic and blind with toxemia at the time of my birth--the result, she explained, of high blood pressure cutting off the circulation to her eyes. I was pushed into this world premature at three pounds seven ounces, an embryonic little bird, glowing translucently, and when they slapped me I didn't even yowl. They thought I was dead. The doctor, holding my bluish body upside down by the ankles, took one look at me and said, "My, what big feet she has." And then I was ushered into an incubator where I lay, as all embryonic creatures do, waiting to hatch into the real world, outside the bubble. After that, my health only balanced precariously on the edge of a "Let's get to the bottom of what's wrong with this kid" kind of existence.

There were early nose-'n'-throat flare-ups, loud belching that defied my delicate appearance, pesky and persistent migraines, swollen tonsils that fluttered a plea for removal whenever I said "Ahhh," a deviated septum blamed for my mouth hanging open to breathe, and elusive allergies that forever deprived me of sustenance from the four basic food groups. As we got closer to pinning down my mysterious illness in the cardiology department, Mom moved into micromanaged health care with the logistical vigor of a drill sergeant.

"Look, dammit, this kid is sick, all right? Just look at her. And so help me God, if she dies on me because you can't find anything wrong with her, I'll sue you for every cent you got." Mom's face was long, her eyes diving into slits, and she had that little white blob of thick spit that always played on her bottom lip whenever she got upset. Her voice trailed after any doctor who said no more tests could be done, stalked him down the corridor, sliced through the silence of the hallway.

"Jeesus Christ," she hissed, returning to the examining room, "I cannot believe that incompetent son of a bitch."

"Don't worry, Mom. It's okay. We'll go find another one."

This is how I offered reassurance, by telling her we'd just keep going.

"Look, I'm trying to help you with this, sacrificing my life to find out what the hell is wrong with you. So stop fucking it up when we get in here by acting all normal. Show them how sick you are and let's get to the bottom of this, okay?"

"Okay."

We lived together day in and day out--me, Mom, Dad, little Danny, and then later, the foster kids--but Dad never knew I was getting my chest shaved. He was summoned by Mom with a set of "decent clothes" and the boxed white loafers only when a demonstration of fatherly support was paramount at a hospital. Otherwise, he was left to his back-to-back reruns of M*A*S*H, his red-stained pistachio fingers and mounds of empty nut carcasses piled high on his belly.

We lived in a double-wide trailer then, stuck on the dead end of a dirt road in a backwoods patch of Ohio; a wild, woolly green, lushed-out part of the country with roller coaster hills that held their breath in a Deliverance kind of way. I swear you could almost hear the banjos folded faintly into the breeze.

My parents had hauled their black velvet painting of Jesus crucified, with the 3-D blood from the crown of thorns blobbing down the side of his head, all the way from Arizona and then through the six other places we'd lived until we settled in the holler of Burns Road.

Our living room was outfitted with an early imitation-wagon-wheel velour sofa set, and Jesus hung against the burnt-orange velvet wallpaper, which had been pasted over wood paneling, so that the grooves showed through as darkened, hollow stripes. Sticky shag (as if someone had vacuumed up honey) swayed like undulating seaweed across the floor. Miniature concrete farm animals dotted our yard in pairs and groups--white baby chicks, mini cows with pink udders, roosters a-courting hens, a donkey in a sombrero--and when we were in town for my doctors' appointments, Mom always kept an eagle eye out for additions to her barnyard collection.

I remember my dad then, manateelike; big, soft, scrubbed clean as if he'd just been run through a car wash on a La-Z-Boy gurney. Naked white skin stretched taut over an enormous belly, the pallor of sick clay. No hearing. No sight. No opinion. The dark living room of our trailer held nothing---except sporadic uproarious laughter to the endless hijinks of Hawkeye and Hunnicut.

Once, when I was seven, I lay in bed drifting to sleep when Dad roared, "Siiissy! Siiisssssy!" I leapt out of bed, thinking "FIRE," and tore down the hall in slippery full-footed pajamas.

"Fix me some toast, will ya?" Dad's fingers placidly folded over his chest, thick calves propped up on the snapping-turtle hinges of the recliner footrest, he never took his eyes off the set.

Aside from trips to the doctor, we mostly stayed home in that trailer on the dead end of a dirt road, and there was a great gulf between how we really were and how we looked when we got out. I have a photo from when I was about eleven and Danny, my brother, was just four, when we drove up to Niagara Falls for a vacation. We're in a fake wooden barrel that looks like it was careening over the side of the falls, and we each wear a smile that couldn't have been more plastic than the water swirling around us. I am naturally blond by Clairol, wearing the latest in JCPenney pastels, and exuding happiness.

But happiness is relative when you're twelve, sitting in a chrome-on-steel examination room, goose bumps giving you that plucked-chicken look, with a nubbly paper sheet tucked into your clammy armpits. Until now the answers had run like whispers over the hills just ahead of us. A little intermittent tachycardia here, some Marfanoid habitus there. Never anything code-red enough to get me completely, legitimately diagnosed. But they kept looking. Because Mom was positive that the answer was right there in my heart. A mother knows these things. She's the one who'd see me go ashy in the face, she's the one who'd take my skipping pulse, and she's the one who watched the weight fall right off my bones, all the while my height skyrocketed. So that's what flamed us onwards, after the answer. It was right there, just always right there before us, waiting to be sussed out, and then it would all make sense. And in some ways, she was right. But time might be running out for me, so when Mom insisted on another test and they wouldn't do it, well, that's when we'd get the hell out of there and try to find somebody who knew what they were doing.

My mother, Sandy Sue Smith, was married off by her mother at the tender age of seventeen to a man in his fifties named Smokey, who kept a carnival act on the edge of town. Smokey was a small, tight man with crisp tabs of sideburns that sliced down from under his curled black cowboy hat. He had trick riding horses, horses trained for the carnival ring, and he taught Sandy Sue to do outrageously dangerous stunts with names like "The Apache Flyaway" and "Lay Over the Neck." After the stunts, Smokey would strap Sandy to a pegged wooden wheel, set it spinning, and throw nineteen-inch-long knives at her. And then there she'd be, having survived the ten sharp blades that jutted haphazardly from the cracked wood around her, smiling brightly with one leg cocked, like a model, a dainty hand flipped above in triumph. This was before she had me but I've seen the pictures and they are stunning: She stands tall upon the bare back of a wild, white horse blurring across a field, with a ruby-tangerine-streaked sky as the backdrop.

In another photo Smokey is snapping a twenty-five-foot braided leather bullwhip out toward Sandy, who stands pinned to the horse trailer with an expressionless face, the whip side-winding like a snake about to coil around her throat. They wear matching outfits of black-and-white yoked satin shirts with pearl snap buttons, silver conchs sewn down their trouser seams, and belt buckles the size of serving platters.

How Sandy ended up with Smokey goes something like this: She has a mother and a father and an older brother named Lee, who is a little off, wink, wink. The father ignores the family, keeps his attention on a gun collection stashed throughout the house. The mother, Madge, is from a clan of West Virginians who sleep with their own brothers and sisters and have cross-eyed children to prove it. Sandy is occasionally left with men that do terrible things to her in a shadowy basement. The father with the guns is replaced one day by another gun-toting father--only this time with a badge. He makes Sandy ride behind him on his motorcycle with his hand curved around and resting on her bare leg. He takes her to remote fishing holes with tall grass and the occasional fisherman who looks the other way. Two years later, Sandy walks in from school to find this new dad has stuck a gun in his mouth and blown himself apart right there on the living room sofa.

Madge has a tenth-grade education and has never worked a day in her life. There is scarcely ever food in the house. Sandy's given no lunch money and by the time she's fifteen, she's famished. Sinking in on herself with malnutrition, she collapses on one of the floors she scrubs with ammonia after school. In the hospital she lies with pelvic bones poking through thin white sheets, while they feed her three meals a day. When she's strong enough to be discharged, Madge gives her to Smokey, a man who lives down the road with horses and a farm, a man who can take care of her as well as he does his own cattle. And she climbs into his truck with going-to-girls'-town enthusiasm, lured by the promise of her very own horse. Off she goes with a man. It is all she's known.

Years go by with Sandy strapped to the wheel: white leather, showgirl's smile. Coal black hair separated down the middle into leather tunnels that lace up the side in Indian squaw fashion, accentuating the trace of Cherokee blood that gives her the high cheekbones and blushed full lips. She runs alongside as her gift horse tumbles into a full gallop, grips its long, flying mane, and then, clutching the horn, springs into the saddle with a panther's grace, pushing to balance her way up until she is standing tall while the spectators cheer. Still running at a breakneck speed, she plunges under the horse's belly and thrusts her arm out in performance-style splendor, ta-daaaaa. This is the Russian Death Drag. She has captured an audience and, for the first time in her existence, something other than a life, a body full of pain.


From the Hardcover edition.
Read More Show Less

First Chapter

The part I hated most was the shaving.

I mean, if you're a twelve-year-old girl, how much hair can you have on your chest? But they'd lather me up anyway and run a new plastic Bic between my barely-there breasts. They needed me smooth and hairless so the little white pads would stick to those points constellated around my heart and record my beats. And while they were preparing, I'd hover above myself, intent on studying the nubby white ceiling tiles, imagining a room where I lived, inverted, upon the ceiling, away from the clutter of our trailer, away from the hospital--just floating in pure, white peace.

The scent of the shaving cream pulls me back down from the ceiling: It's the same kind Dad used. Every day before dawn, he'd erupt in violent heaving and crawl off to the toilet trying to peel the Agent Orange from his lungs. Sometimes the sounds of his retching would come out the mouths of those elusive figures in my dreams, the worlds between sleep and wake merging seamlessly for a few groggy moments. He'd usually shave after he puked.

In an unspoken understanding, the examining room nurse folds a giant pile of cream from the can onto her palm, so much that as she smooths an inch-thick trail down my chest, our naked skin never touches.

Eventually the tide of Agent Orange would ebb and he'd lean dizzy in the doorway and say, "I'm selling Buicks, Sissy. Get it? Selling Buicks? Buuicck. Buuuuiiick." Then he'd cackle and brush the back of his meaty fist across his mouth.

The nurse picks up a new blue-handled blade and runs it neatly down my sternum, slicing out another clean, pink row.

And what do you do at seven in the morning but laugh withyour big, lumbering father, who's pretending the doorway of the bathroom is a lamppost and that he, leaning on it like a drunk, is hawking Buicks in his best barker accent?

And then they're done. The white pads have been spread with a clear magnetic jelly and pressed on to six different locations. Their wires run into one larger river of wires that flows from under my sternum down my abdomen, emerging out the zipper of my pants like I had some elaborate cable TV pay-per-view setup in there. The rubber-coated electrodes feed into a tape recorder that fits snugly into a rectangular leather harness; it looks like a purse. I wear the strap over my shoulder, and while my seventh-grade life ticks away, so do the heartbeats that go with it, right into the box.

For starters, I was a sick kid. Beanpole skinny and as fragile as a microwave souffle, I bruised easy and wilted in a snap. Kids in school used to walk straight up to me and ask point-blank if I was anorexic. But I wasn't; just sick. And Mom bent over backwards trying to find out what was wrong with me. It wasn't just that I had a heart problem. It was everything rolled into one, bleeding together with so many indistinguishable layers that to get to the root of it was impossible, like peeling off every transparent layer of an onion, and when I got old enough to peel the onion myself, every layer made me cry.

I was conceived in the sickly womb of a sickly mother--who starved herself and in turn starved me. She was highly anemic and blind with toxemia at the time of my birth--the result, she explained, of high blood pressure cutting off the circulation to her eyes. I was pushed into this world premature at three pounds seven ounces, an embryonic little bird, glowing translucently, and when they slapped me I didn't even yowl. They thought I was dead. The doctor, holding my bluish body upside down by the ankles, took one look at me and said, "My, what big feet she has." And then I was ushered into an incubator where I lay, as all embryonic creatures do, waiting to hatch into the real world, outside the bubble. After that, my health only balanced precariously on the edge of a "Let's get to the bottom of what's wrong with this kid" kind of existence.

There were early nose-'n'-throat flare-ups, loud belching that defied my delicate appearance, pesky and persistent migraines, swollen tonsils that fluttered a plea for removal whenever I said "Ahhh," a deviated septum blamed for my mouth hanging open to breathe, and elusive allergies that forever deprived me of sustenance from the four basic food groups. As we got closer to pinning down my mysterious illness in the cardiology department, Mom moved into micromanaged health care with the logistical vigor of a drill sergeant.

"Look, dammit, this kid is sick, all right? Just look at her. And so help me God, if she dies on me because you can't find anything wrong with her, I'll sue you for every cent you got." Mom's face was long, her eyes diving into slits, and she had that little white blob of thick spit that always played on her bottom lip whenever she got upset. Her voice trailed after any doctor who said no more tests could be done, stalked him down the corridor, sliced through the silence of the hallway.

"Jeesus Christ," she hissed, returning to the examining room, "I cannot believe that incompetent son of a bitch."

"Don't worry, Mom. It's okay. We'll go find another one."

This is how I offered reassurance, by telling her we'd just keep going.

"Look, I'm trying to help you with this, sacrificing my life to find out what the hell is wrong with you. So stop fucking it up when we get in here by acting all normal. Show them how sick you are and let's get to the bottom of this, okay?"

"Okay."

We lived together day in and day out--me, Mom, Dad, little Danny, and then later, the foster kids--but Dad never knew I was getting my chest shaved. He was summoned by Mom with a set of "decent clothes" and the boxed white loafers only when a demonstration of fatherly support was paramount at a hospital. Otherwise, he was left to his back-to-back reruns of M*A*S*H, his red-stained pistachio fingers and mounds of empty nut carcasses piled high on his belly.

We lived in a double-wide trailer then, stuck on the dead end of a dirt road in a backwoods patch of Ohio; a wild, woolly green, lushed-out part of the country with roller coaster hills that held their breath in a Deliverance kind of way. I swear you could almost hear the banjos folded faintly into the breeze.

My parents had hauled their black velvet painting of Jesus crucified, with the 3-D blood from the crown of thorns blobbing down the side of his head, all the way from Arizona and then through the six other places we'd lived until we settled in the holler of Burns Road.

Our living room was outfitted with an early imitation-wagon-wheel velour sofa set, and Jesus hung against the burnt-orange velvet wallpaper, which had been pasted over wood paneling, so that the grooves showed through as darkened, hollow stripes. Sticky shag (as if someone had vacuumed up honey) swayed like undulating seaweed across the floor. Miniature concrete farm animals dotted our yard in pairs and groups--white baby chicks, mini cows with pink udders, roosters a-courting hens, a donkey in a sombrero--and when we were in town for my doctors' appointments, Mom always kept an eagle eye out for additions to her barnyard collection.

I remember my dad then, manateelike; big, soft, scrubbed clean as if he'd just been run through a car wash on a La-Z-Boy gurney. Naked white skin stretched taut over an enormous belly, the pallor of sick clay. No hearing. No sight. No opinion. The dark living room of our trailer held nothing---except sporadic uproarious laughter to the endless hijinks of Hawkeye and Hunnicut.

Once, when I was seven, I lay in bed drifting to sleep when Dad roared, "Siiissy! Siiisssssy!" I leapt out of bed, thinking "FIRE," and tore down the hall in slippery full-footed pajamas.

"Fix me some toast, will ya?" Dad's fingers placidly folded over his chest, thick calves propped up on the snapping-turtle hinges of the recliner footrest, he never took his eyes off the set.

Aside from trips to the doctor, we mostly stayed home in that trailer on the dead end of a dirt road, and there was a great gulf between how we really were and how we looked when we got out. I have a photo from when I was about eleven and Danny, my brother, was just four, when we drove up to Niagara Falls for a vacation. We're in a fake wooden barrel that looks like it was careening over the side of the falls, and we each wear a smile that couldn't have been more plastic than the water swirling around us. I am naturally blond by Clairol, wearing the latest in JCPenney pastels, and exuding happiness.

But happiness is relative when you're twelve, sitting in a chrome-on-steel examination room, goose bumps giving you that plucked-chicken look, with a nubbly paper sheet tucked into your clammy armpits. Until now the answers had run like whispers over the hills just ahead of us. A little intermittent tachycardia here, some Marfanoid habitus there. Never anything code-red enough to get me completely, legitimately diagnosed. But they kept looking. Because Mom was positive that the answer was right there in my heart. A mother knows these things. She's the one who'd see me go ashy in the face, she's the one who'd take my skipping pulse, and she's the one who watched the weight fall right off my bones, all the while my height skyrocketed. So that's what flamed us onwards, after the answer. It was right there, just always right there before us, waiting to be sussed out, and then it would all make sense. And in some ways, she was right. But time might be running out for me, so when Mom insisted on another test and they wouldn't do it, well, that's when we'd get the hell out of there and try to find somebody who knew what they were doing.

My mother, Sandy Sue Smith, was married off by her mother at the tender age of seventeen to a man in his fifties named Smokey, who kept a carnival act on the edge of town. Smokey was a small, tight man with crisp tabs of sideburns that sliced down from under his curled black cowboy hat. He had trick riding horses, horses trained for the carnival ring, and he taught Sandy Sue to do outrageously dangerous stunts with names like "The Apache Flyaway" and "Lay Over the Neck." After the stunts, Smokey would strap Sandy to a pegged wooden wheel, set it spinning, and throw nineteen-inch-long knives at her. And then there she'd be, having survived the ten sharp blades that jutted haphazardly from the cracked wood around her, smiling brightly with one leg cocked, like a model, a dainty hand flipped above in triumph. This was before she had me but I've seen the pictures and they are stunning: She stands tall upon the bare back of a wild, white horse blurring across a field, with a ruby-tangerine-streaked sky as the backdrop.

In another photo Smokey is snapping a twenty-five-foot braided leather bullwhip out toward Sandy, who stands pinned to the horse trailer with an expressionless face, the whip side-winding like a snake about to coil around her throat. They wear matching outfits of black-and-white yoked satin shirts with pearl snap buttons, silver conchs sewn down their trouser seams, and belt buckles the size of serving platters.

How Sandy ended up with Smokey goes something like this: She has a mother and a father and an older brother named Lee, who is a little off, wink, wink. The father ignores the family, keeps his attention on a gun collection stashed throughout the house. The mother, Madge, is from a clan of West Virginians who sleep with their own brothers and sisters and have cross-eyed children to prove it. Sandy is occasionally left with men that do terrible things to her in a shadowy basement. The father with the guns is replaced one day by another gun-toting father--only this time with a badge. He makes Sandy ride behind him on his motorcycle with his hand curved around and resting on her bare leg. He takes her to remote fishing holes with tall grass and the occasional fisherman who looks the other way. Two years later, Sandy walks in from school to find this new dad has stuck a gun in his mouth and blown himself apart right there on the living room sofa.

Madge has a tenth-grade education and has never worked a day in her life. There is scarcely ever food in the house. Sandy's given no lunch money and by the time she's fifteen, she's famished. Sinking in on herself with malnutrition, she collapses on one of the floors she scrubs with ammonia after school. In the hospital she lies with pelvic bones poking through thin white sheets, while they feed her three meals a day. When she's strong enough to be discharged, Madge gives her to Smokey, a man who lives down the road with horses and a farm, a man who can take care of her as well as he does his own cattle. And she climbs into his truck with going-to-girls'-town enthusiasm, lured by the promise of her very own horse. Off she goes with a man. It is all she's known.

Years go by with Sandy strapped to the wheel: white leather, showgirl's smile. Coal black hair separated down the middle into leather tunnels that lace up the side in Indian squaw fashion, accentuating the trace of Cherokee blood that gives her the high cheekbones and blushed full lips. She runs alongside as her gift horse tumbles into a full gallop, grips its long, flying mane, and then, clutching the horn, springs into the saddle with a panther's grace, pushing to balance her way up until she is standing tall while the spectators cheer. Still running at a breakneck speed, she plunges under the horse's belly and thrusts her arm out in performance-style splendor, ta-daaaaa. This is the Russian Death Drag. She has captured an audience and, for the first time in her existence, something other than a life, a body full of pain.
Read More Show Less

Reading Group Guide

1. What parallels did you notice between Julie’s family dynamic and that of her parents? In what ways was abusive behavior perpetuated across generations? Why is it often so difficult to end these destructive cycles?

2. Compare the various ways in which illness, both mental and physical, plays out in the memoir. Are there common threads between Dan’s side effects from Agent Orange and Sandy’s obsessive collecting? Would an inventory of the family’s symptoms contain any themes?

3. In what way is racism a reflection of Sandy and Dan’s paranoia and quest for supremacy? Or do you view their hatred of nonwhites as a cultural phenomenon? How does Sandy’s insistence on bleached-blond hair factor into these assumptions based on appearance?

4. What gender lines were drawn for Julie as a child and teenager? What was she taught to assume about men, especially the role of older men, and sexuality? Who had the most power in the Gregory household?

5. Do you believe that Sandy took in children and veterans for financial reasons only, or were they essential to her psychopathic illusions? When she forces Julie to inflict punishment on the foster children, what truths about the nature of sadism are revealed?

6. In his foreword to Sickened, Dr. Marc Feldman writes that though the disease was named in 1951, it still remains a subject of contentious skepticism in many medical circles. Why is it so difficult to accept? Why did Julie have to explain MBP to her counselors, rather than receiving the therapeutic treatment she needed? What does this resistance indicate about the nature of diagnosis and healing in general?

7. Malnutrition was a primary factor in Julie’s de facto illness, leading to symptoms of anorexia nervosa later in her life. What does the concept of hunger represent to her? Why is Sandy intolerant of Julie’s attempts to help Tina nourish herself?

8. Julie says that truth is whatever your mind believes. What does this memoir demonstrate about how our self-perceptions are shaped? How easy was it for her to believe that she was neither attractive nor smart, and that only her parents could protect her from the ridicule of society?

9. Discuss Julie’s writing style, especially her use of imagery. Books were her bridge to healing; how has she used language to create a bridge for others?

10. Do Julie’s parents appear to have any genuine religious faith? How is Julie eventually able to feel a sense of wonder and joy about God?

11. What does Julie’s experience indicate about the safety nets in place for other abused children? Does our society offer a better alternative to parental abuse?

12. How has the book changed your perspective on parenting and MBP in general? What solutions for discerning the truth and keeping children safe could you propose now?

13. Through medical records and photos, Sickened presents the evidence of MBP itself. How might you have perceived these artifacts had you not read the book? Do they speak for themselves?

14. What sets Julie’s story apart from other memoirs of childhood trauma? In what ways does it enrich the collective experience expressed in this genre?

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 118 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(47)

4 Star

(42)

3 Star

(15)

2 Star

(9)

1 Star

(5)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 118 Customer Reviews
  • Posted November 3, 2011

    Sickened--- Ironic!

    After reading this book, I had a life changing epiphany on my interpretation of the world as a whole. I didn't take into account that a disease such as Munchausen by Proxy existed amongst us. I had always pictured abuse as phyisical, but I was off. Munchausen by Proxy is the disease her mother had (often the mother would be the one to have it) but this disease had been excruciatingly emotionally scarring for Julie. I had sympathy toward her the entire book. She had no help within her family. Her dad would sit there with the TV remote in his hand almost shoo-ing her away. Her grandmother would assist Julie's mother in ways that are just..paiful to imagine happening. Given many "headache healers", she needed to be hospitalized yet AGAIN! If one doctor wasn't finding something wrong, she'd be taken to the next. Julie survives through this and grows up with successful recovery. This book is truly inspirational and I believe many should read this to become aware of what could be the reality within your society.

    7 out of 7 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 1, 2012

    Very good read

    This book is hard to put down, and also hard to read at times as Julie describes the horrific experiences from her childhood that stretch out into her adult life. The strength this author has astounds me. Highly recommend.

    5 out of 5 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 22, 2007

    A reviewer

    Sickened is a story about a girl who lives her life by her mother¿s lies. Julie Gregory is made to believe that she is sick and has something wrong with her, but the truth is it¿s her mother who is sick. Her mother, Sandy, has what is called Munchausen¿s By Proxy Syndrome. Since the age of three, Sandy put Julie in and out of the hospital, took her to dozens of pediatricians and put her through un-needed surgeries, all to find an imaginary sickness. She would keep Julie out of school because she would have a feeling Julie wouldn¿t feel good. Almost everyday Julie was feed a little white pill that was supposed to make her headaches go away but all it did was make her nauseous and feel worse. She goes through her whole childhood and most of her teenage years living her mother¿s manipulative ways. Always feeling that it is her fault she is sick. Sandy had a way of making others feel guilty in order to get the attention she wanted. She would always put Julie down and made her feel ugly. Even though Sandy puts Julie down and makes her feel worthless, Julie still loves her mother and says that she has taught her so much. In a way I think that Julie is afraid of the truth and doesn¿t want to accept what happened to her as a child. All of Julie¿s life she is made to felt ugly and sick until her college years when she finds out what the truth is. This book is about overcome the obstacle of life. Julie shows that even though she went through something most children don¿t go through, she is starting a new life and becoming the true Julie Gregory. I really enjoyed this book. When I would start reading it was hard to put down. It opened up my eyes and showed me the ¿real world¿ and how sick some people really are. I think that people should read this book because it illustrates how strong people can be in the toughest situations.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 29, 2011

    Interesting point of view

    I bought this book expecting a detailed story. However that was not the case. While the story itself is very interesting, the way it's written is pretty bland. I would have expected more detail from a story that is so well documented... Not really worth the money...

    2 out of 6 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 25, 2011

    A must read

    A captivating and horrifying story of a girl's childhood and struggles to move on in life. Great story.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 10, 2011

    WOW!

    That is all I can say!
    Very well written! Hard to believe what she went through...I only hope she was able to do what she set out to do at the end of the book!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 2, 2007

    Sickened - the continuing story?

    After reading this book, which I found gripping and disturbing although lacking somewhat in language (though this is completely irrelevant as far as I'm concerned) I started searching the web for more information. Assuming that Julies sufferings are true and that this is how she perceived her childhood, what I found was that Julies mother not surprisingly seems to have found a new way to receive the attention a MSPB-mother so desperately craves. She is now the 'victim' of a conspiracy led by her own daughter on whom she has doted on her whole life. I don't buy it. And as to the allegations made against the book by julies mother and the welsh reporter she has won over - when has a memoir ever been 100 % correct in that sense? Family backgrounds and childhood stories of family members might not be completely accurate but does not in any way make julie's ordeal less horrifying or true. My point is that a true MSBP-mother is likely to wallow in the attention given to her by a book of this sort and with the enormous gift of persuasion normally linked with this condition she will have no problem finding people willing to give her the attention and pity she needs. I would recommend anyone to read this book if only to learn to appreciate their own life and childhood. Although I hope that you pick up some interest to further your knowledge about this horrendous type of child abuse after you get to know the young Julie Gregory and her mysterious 'illness'. Also I can't help wondering what became of Danny, her younger brother who seemed such a gentle soul. I wish both of them all the best and hope they can overcome their past and make a bright future for themselves. That's it for me! :)

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 29, 2004

    Extraordinary Story of Survival

    This is not only a very well-written book, but an amazing story of survival against the greatest odds. The fact that this young woman was able to piece her life together when she reached adulthood, and then write about her hellish childhood in such an incisive way is extraordinary. Most people who come from an abusive childhood are damaged forever, and are always haunted by self-doubt, irrational fears, and an inability to reach out and care for others. Ms. Gregory has risen above the abuse and turned herself into a caring and giving human being. I only hope that the goal she set at the end of the book has been met.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 19, 2004

    Awesome

    This book is awesome. It is the only book of it's kind. It's so great that Julie wrote a book about MBP, because there are no others. I'm so glad that I read it, and I hope that other people read it too, so they can learn about MBP. It really helped me.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 4, 2004

    Very Good Book. :)

    This book was very inspiring. This young girl leaved thru hell and back, yet she came out glowing. A wonderful book, that is well written. I didn't like the last chapter or two though. Was written 'differently' than the previous chapters, but none the less, an excellent novel. :)

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 25, 2004

    Strengthened

    Written w/controlled anger. Written as witnessed from the inside out, and then, from the outside in. The strongest message to take from it: When children cry, they hurt. When children do not speak, they've been silenced. When children love, truth and faith can be manipulated. When children speak, listen. Beautifully written. You will want to hug the author.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 6, 2004

    Incredible read!

    This was an exceptionally well written book. Just when you think this little girl's life is as bad as it could get, it gets worse. The author's courage to tell her story exemplifies what it means to be a true fighter and survivor. Anyone who has been abused or neglected as a child should read this book for inspiration. Julie Gregory is a gutsy gal for exposing her mother and her mother's horrendous parenting and giving the general population just a tiny glimpse into the stolen life of a child. Julie Gregory personifies strength and perseverence. I am truly grateful I decided to read this book.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 4, 2003

    Great and awesome book to read

    The book is a page turner and hard to put down, it will keep you reading for hours to go for.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 10, 2003

    Sickened: The Memoir of a Munchausen by Proxy Childhood

    This book was very hard for me to put down. If you are looking for something that is incredible and true, look no further. It will keep you interested until the very last page, and make you want to know even more about the author and the people involved in her story after you are through reading.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 13, 2003

    Can't stop reading it.

    Written beautifully. Will teach you about the life a Munchausen by Proxy childhood. I wish the author would have included more about what dx the mother may have had...BPD? Factitious disorder?

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 13, 2003

    One of the best Memoirs I've read

    While shopping at Barnes and Noble, I accidently grabbed this wonderful memoir. Sickened is an outstanding memoir that you cannot put down!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted December 3, 2012

    Rough to read but extremely interesting

    To say I enjoyed this book is not entirely accurate. One wonders why a woman such as Julie's mother bothered to have children. She was seemingly abused by her own mother, and consequently went on to abuse her children. What Julie endured is heartbreaking to read about, and her ablity to come out the other side and figure out how to make herself well again is mind boggling. One cannot help but blame her father, also, as he managed to stand up for his son once he was born, but abandoned Julie to her mother's whims.

    It's so hard to imagine why or how a parent can inflict such pain on a child, and equally heartbreaking to realize most adults and even professionals simply don't understand or recognize Munchausen by proxy syndrome, and therefore most of the children who undergo this torture simply slip through the cracks. It's beneficial that Julie was able to write this book in order to flag the behavior, and perhaps she will save some other children for having written this. Fascinating syndrome and very sad for the children whose parents do this to them.

    I applaud Julie for surviving and figuring out how to make herself well after everything she went through. I hope the mother was unable to ever adopt or foster children again, and I think Julie deserves a medal for trying to extricate the other children who came under her mother's care. It's impossible to understand what she got out of torturing these kids, but suffice it to say she should not be allowed within 100 yards of a youngster ever again.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 16, 2012

    Sad, but a good read!!

    I actually didn't know much about the disease her mother had but have heard of cases like this. Such a sad story. Definitely worth buying and its a quick read.

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted June 10, 2012

    Great

    This story was amazing...my birth mother too has munchausen by proxy...i was lucky my sister and i were taken away when we were to young to remembr all that happened to us...but Julie remembers it all! She thought her mother was doing the best for her, she went along with it; but once she realized what was really going on it made her sick...this is a must read for sure...loved it

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2011

    Review

    Well written and honest.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 118 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)