THE TELL

Griffin’s debut memoir begins with a lyrical account of an idyllic childhood in Amarillo, Texas. Her family owned a chain of convenience stores called Toot’n Totum, whose sparkling aisles of colorful products seemed to the young Amy a kind of paradise. “The best things in life weren’t free. They were shrink-wrapped.” From an early age, she loved running, but also felt she couldn’t stop running—as she grew up, she felt both an intense pressure to be perfect and a disturbing sense of disassociation from her own accomplishments. “From the outside, at least, after I married John and we began building our life together, things did seem ‘perfect.’ I was athletic, tall, and blond. John was successful and respected in his career. I got pregnant easily and gave birth to a healthy baby boy, my son Jack.” Three more children followed. She traces the beginning of her understanding that something was wrong to the day her 10-year-old daughter complained that she felt disconnected from her: “You’re here, but you’re not here.” After her husband had a great experience with a mental health practitioner who worked with MDMA, she decided to try it. Very quickly, the walls came tumbling down. Terrible experiences she had in middle school began to play in her head “like I was the only person in a theater, watching a movie projected up onto the screen from the front row.” The remainder of the book describes her attempts to get some kind of closure, but it turns out that the Texas statute of limitations has expired and people she hopes will be able to confirm some part of her story aren’t able to help. In the end, the only relief she can get is from writing it all down—first in detailed journals she kept at the time and now in this book. And though it would sound strange to describe the account of something this dark as “good,” Griffin has indeed validated her experience with a well-written and moving book.

Mar 11, 2025 - 07:30

Griffin’s debut memoir begins with a lyrical account of an idyllic childhood in Amarillo, Texas. Her family owned a chain of convenience stores called Toot’n Totum, whose sparkling aisles of colorful products seemed to the young Amy a kind of paradise. “The best things in life weren’t free. They were shrink-wrapped.” From an early age, she loved running, but also felt she couldn’t stop running—as she grew up, she felt both an intense pressure to be perfect and a disturbing sense of disassociation from her own accomplishments. “From the outside, at least, after I married John and we began building our life together, things did seem ‘perfect.’ I was athletic, tall, and blond. John was successful and respected in his career. I got pregnant easily and gave birth to a healthy baby boy, my son Jack.” Three more children followed. She traces the beginning of her understanding that something was wrong to the day her 10-year-old daughter complained that she felt disconnected from her: “You’re here, but you’re not here.” After her husband had a great experience with a mental health practitioner who worked with MDMA, she decided to try it. Very quickly, the walls came tumbling down. Terrible experiences she had in middle school began to play in her head “like I was the only person in a theater, watching a movie projected up onto the screen from the front row.” The remainder of the book describes her attempts to get some kind of closure, but it turns out that the Texas statute of limitations has expired and people she hopes will be able to confirm some part of her story aren’t able to help. In the end, the only relief she can get is from writing it all down—first in detailed journals she kept at the time and now in this book. And though it would sound strange to describe the account of something this dark as “good,” Griffin has indeed validated her experience with a well-written and moving book.