Mithila Reads

TW: sexual abuse, addiction, self-harm

The blurb of the book on GoodReads starts as “This is not your mother’s memoir”. And truer words have not been spoken. If you’re looking for an effeminate story that speaks about the angelic way writing ideas drop into your lap, this is not the book for you. To put it crudely, this memoir is the one in which the author bares out her soul , her dead foetus, her psychedelic-snorting nose, her sexually abusive father, her alcoholic (and puke ejector) mouth and her perpetual hunger for something to relieve the pain and get into a world where everything is numb. Further, the first line of the Acknowledgements section of the book states that “The Chronology of Water” is dedicated to anyone who has ever fucked up in their life or to anyone who has been touched by the great river of sadness that runs through all of us.

To quote one of Lidia’s influential mentors:

Happiness? Happiness makes crappy stories.

Ken Kesey

“The Chronology of Water” by Lidia Yuknavitch is divided into five parts and they are named in the order in which you’d learn to swim: Holding Breath, Under Blue, The Wet, Resuscitations and The Other Side of Drowning. This makes sense, because Lidia is a swimmer who has won laurels since her childhood. Water has been in the foreground of her stories, whether in the physical sense or metaphorically. Unlike the headings, the story itself does not flow from childhood to present day in a chronological fashion. It meanders. From one valley and one plain and one mountain to another. Taking you, the reader, through a journey you cannot stay apathetic to.

The recurring themes in this book would certainly be those around
birth: abnormal birth, failed birth, successful birth
sexuality: a non-consensual one that makes you feel like you don’t deserve the good kind of sex, the path of a queer person who is figuring out her body throughout her teens and into adulthood
dependencies: on emotionally unavailable men, alcohol and drugs and pain
death: of the ones you wish dead and the ones you love.
The ingenuity of the author is in finding a common thread through all these common stories – water. Or liquid. Or fluid. That is what makes this book stand out of the rest.

In the author’s words:

No matter how marketable the addiction story has become, this is not that story. My life is more ordinary. More like… more like everyone’s

Lidia Yuknavitch

Various characters in this book include her father – an architect, an artist, an abuser. Her mother – a physically handicapped drunk. Her sister – a bright mind and a kind soul. Her ex-husbands – intoxicated on love and other condiments. Her writing group – critical, yet supportive. I’ll stop right here, because I’d like you to cherish your first interaction with these characters thoroughly.

Her unique way of writing, fluid and breathless, does remind you of the feelings you experience when you’re in deep waters. There is a chapter in the book titled “Distilled” which will challenge you as a reader because there’s so much going on within every word of every sentence, that you’d have to keep the book aside for a minute or more after you’re done with every para because you’re A. in awe of how a story of 11 years of life with someone can be compressed within a para for a year and B. shocked to the core of how well a story can be told from an ever-metamorphosing memory (more about our chameleon brains later).

Another favourite chapter has to be: Dreaming in Women. Oh wait, one more: Secular Miracle. I can’t do enough justice to those chapters by writing about them, so let me share a quote from them with you.

Many readers on GoodReads have “reviewed” the book saying that this book is blatantly over-the-top about incest, sexual abuse, drug abuse, alcohol addiction, sadomasochism, etc. I don’t agree with this. This “critique” of a book arises from the mere fact that the book has been written by a woman. That’s it. The uncomfortable experience of reading a book by a woman who owns her sexuality and is comfortable with flaunting it is what fuels such critiques. The truth is that this book is written by a woman who is honest enough to own her mistakes, broadcast her painful experiences and etch her past in stone instead of letting it run away like currents in a pond. This book is written by a woman who has, despite the odds, found her calling. The crescendo that this book has in the last part makes you feel hopeful, makes you feel like even though life has always been throwing whirlpools and maydays her way, there is a hope of a sunny day with an anchor down at a heavenly port. For her. And for all of us.

For me, satisfactorily reading a memoir involves two main checkboxes: the experience of the person whose memoir I’m reading should be something that’s new to me and the narrative should open my eyes to the brilliance of the author whose writing their memoir. This book certainly ticks both those checkboxes, with huge big ticks. (book cover pun!)

“The Chronology of Water” is a must-read, if you’re comfortable with the trigger warnings I put at the beginning of this post. It’s an experience that will truly condense into brain-droplets and stay in the back of your mind always.

I’ll leave you with a quote from an interview which formed a part of the ebook version I read:

I want you to hear how it feels to be me inside a sentence.

Lidia Yuknavitch