Saying that my mother’s side of the family is toxic is like saying nuclear waste is merely an “unpleasant” byproduct.

They’re giving me fantastic material, though—so let it never be said that I’m not grateful for their contributions.

This memoir of mine—Crash Burn Write—is writing itself in real time. It won’t just be unputdownable. It’ll be the kind of book people devour in one sitting, then sit in stunned silence wondering how they ever thought their own average dysfunctional family was that bad.

It’s not just that they’re toxic—it’s that they’ve wrapped themselves in the veneer of respectability, positioning themselves as helpers and contributors to society while wreaking havoc behind closed doors. There’s a deep, unsettling hypocrisy in people who present themselves as healers, educators, or pillars of the community while simultaneously causing irreparable harm to those closest to them.

If they were openly dysfunctional—addicts, recluses, or people society already dismissed—it would almost be easier to process. But the fact that they hold positions of influence, that they are seen as functional, helpful, even admirable members of society, is what makes it so grotesque. It’s the dissonance between their public personas and their private toxicity that’s truly nauseating.

It’s like watching people who set fires in their own homes being praised for handing out buckets of water to everyone else. And worse, they believe their own PR. That level of delusion and self-righteousness is a special kind of sickness.

💥🔥✍️