For two days, I fight the story welling up in me, denying the itch of the burn, the angry redness biting at my skin. And then I wake up the third day and say to myself, “My mom was raped when she was my age. When she was twenty-seven.”
Even before a lending library copy of The Adderall Diaries arrived in my mailbox some time in the summer of 2009, I knew I’d be hooked. A colleague had recommended it, saying it was a gripping memoir that interwove threads of an edgy personal narrative and a murder trial.