To be honest, nonfiction isn’t my go-to genre, unless it’s a person I’m a hardcore fan of or whom I am fascinated by. And I’m not a hardcore fan of Selma Blair, although I am appreciative of several of her movies. But I saw a couple of interviews she did prior to the release of this, and I found myself really wanting to read this. And I’m very glad I did.
Blair holds nothing back, telling her story in all its wonderous and raw glory. There are moments when it is absolutely bonkers, not at all flattering to her, and those were the parts I appreciated most. There is something very vulnerable and special about someone baring even the most gritty parts of themselves. And there are some gritty times in Blair’s life. Her childhood, to say the least, was problematic, as was her relationship with both her parents. It led her to walk a path that was deeply dysfunctional and physically damaging. And of course, her MS was a part of the story, woven through her life long before she knew what it was that was happening to her body.
There are times when the story feels like it’s being told from a bit of a distance, as if the writer isn’t Blair herself but a third party. It’s very detached, a clear sympton of the emotional pain she still feels for various times of her life. But detached doesn’t mean that she shys away from the darkest moments.
She is clear that she is not the epitome of all MS experiences, that her experience is just that… hers. So some with MS might relate to her story, but others may not. And Mean Baby is not a chronicle of her MS; that is just a part of her stories. In reality, the book is a story of so many things… of loss and grief, of dysfunction, of emotional pain, of dark places and bad choices, of generaltional trauma, of impossible expectations. It’s truly a story of a lifetime of struggle, and it is written proof that all that is Hollywood does not glitter. And somehow, no matter how dark it is, it is somehow incredibly hopeful.