Mommie Dearest by Christina Crawford Read Online (FREE)
Read Mommie Dearest by Christina Crawford full book online for free here.
How amazing! When Mommie Dearest was first published in 1978, there was no such thing as ebooks, no internet sales, and no social media. What a privilege it is now to release this ebook edition, complete with photos from my personal collection and one hundred pages from the original manuscript that were never published until the 20th Anniversary edition in 1998.
Over all these years you have shared your personal stories with me and I have heard you. Thank you for trusting me to be your witness in a way that perhaps your own community could not. What you have taught me is profound.
So, to all of you who have suffered in silence, who have lived in despair of justice, who have turned to drugs and alcohol as pain relief, who have allowed anger to rule life, and whose stories may never be told except as cold statistics, this edition is dedicated to you.
Family violence is generational, learned behavior. And while new laws and better interventions can certainly help—and have done so—only the informed will of individuals can actually change behavior. That is the primary reason I have kept Mommie Dearest in constant publication over nearly forty years. It’s important to me that the original autobiography is available to anyone who wishes to read it for themselves.
I believe that life is a journey, that life is about personal accountability—at some point there can be no more excuses and no more lies.
Therefore, I still have hope and deep gratitude for the journey itself.
North Idaho, USA, 2017
Dead. New York City, May 10, 1977 at 10 a.m. Eastern Daylight time. Official cause of death: coronary arrest.
As the wire services sped the news around the world we heard a brief obit on the radio all-news station on our way to the airport.
The only time so far that I had cried was when an old fan had called to tell me about the TV news station coming to film his collection of her clothes and photographs in his living room and to ask if he could have her dog … if no-one else had asked for it. Would I bring the dog back with me? She’s barely cold and someone wants the dog! It was the same story all over again – the old clothes and the anklestrap shoes and the 8×10 autographed glossies and the goddamned dog. The rage made me shake and tears spilled down my face … yet somehow my voice sounded ever polite. I hung up the phone.
Superstar is dead. Now the closet door will open and every weirdo in America will be on parade waving their faithful notes signed “God Bless … Joan.” I cried. But it wasn’t sorrow, it was anger … a flash of the old rage like one of those violent thunder and lightening storms that sweep across the eastern sky and are gone.