Without a title, some might think Lisa Carver is being obtuse, or that it would be difficult to figure out what this book is about. There is no clever assemblage of a poignant phrase or interior location to manifest a title, and thus some understanding before delving into the work. The topics/themes covered in this book are difficult, painful, and damaging. The unflinching recollections coupled with abstract paintings make the reader part of the horror. There is a sense of complicity and guilt for even reading, much less what the author actually experienced. After all the terrible ordeals, there is a sense of strength rather than pity or unfettered misanthropy. It's a brave thing to expose things we as a society would rather not experience. This book was like a flashlight, and hopefully it will help us all find something we didn't know we needed for the ubiquitous darkness.
Lisa Carver's usual output is of the outsider artist/punk rawk riot grrrrrrl. Her life story has been strange and unusual. Her chronicles of roller rinks, BDSM, and general coupled dysfunction are engaging reads. This latest work is much darker, and much more personal. You may feel like you are drowning. You may feel alone in a forest. You may feel like the garage is filling up with carbon monoxide. You may feel right at home.