I’m going to disclose right here that I know Felicia Sullivan, author of the new memoir The Sky Isn’t Visible From Here. Not especially well, but from the New York writery scene—a book party here, a KGB reading there. She’s a blogger, an online marketing whiz, a radio host, and the founder of a terrific literary magazine. She’s one of those people who seems a million times more together than you’ll ever be.

But she’s also a powerfully honest writer, and in her new book she reveals a past you’d never imagine. Sullivan was raised in pre-gentrification Brooklyn amidst drug dealers, junkies, and an unstable family. Her mother was volatile, addicted, and abusive. Her stepfathers came and went. Her biological father was, and remains, a mystery. She persevered, finishing college and graduate school, hiding her past and facing her own troubles with addiction.

Today she is successful, sober, and sharing her story with readers everywhere. The Sky Isn’t Visible From Here is stark and poetic, fascinating and touching. It’s heartbreaking, but also thought-provoking and empowering. Don’t miss it. —Rachel Fershleiser

Read an excerpt here and read a very personal interview with Felicia Sullivan below.

When did you know it was time to really tell your story?
In some way or another, I’ve always written about my mother. When I was eight I published a haiku that likened my mother’s voice to thunder. She’s always been my subject—I can’t really recall a time in which my work hasn’t revolved around her—the one person I couldn’t, but desperately wanted to, understand. For years I was working on a novel of lifeless, unlikable characters that did mildly interesting things. I was writing a safe book because I was afraid to commit my memories, this horrific life lived, this very unsafe book, to paper. I was ashamed of my past, of living in poverty, of a mother who loved and terrorized me. I had lived a life of my own invention for so long, I couldn’t imagine otherwise.

At one point the weight of these two lives—the accomplished, in-control professional and the frightened child who never really mourned the loss of her mother—were becoming difficult to bear. Something had to give. One afternoon a friend of mine and I were trading stories about our mothers and we realized that we had both been shamed into secrecy. We were made to feel shame by our mothers, our impoverished upbringing, and a culture in which not loving your mother is unthinkable. I wrote this book as a testament to my strength, as a celebration of my survival and recovery, to demonstrate that alternative families are possible, and that love—the most sacred of emotions—is not unconditional.

Until then, you’d been very secretive. Why and how did you reinvent your identity in college and beyond?
For many high school seniors, going away to college is thrilling because it represents adulthood, a separation from parental ties, home. For me, it was a means of escape. My father and I lived for years in a dark house, shades drawn, frightened of my mother’s rages. As long as I lived under her roof, I was her property. I was of her kind. And the weight and shame of where we came from, our humble background, amidst a suburban town where teenagers had all the comforts I craved, I knew when I headed off to Fordham that I was desperate to be anyone else but myself.

When I arrived at Fordham, it was a whole new world of white. The kids were affluent, preppy, conservative. They were blonde, owned cashmere sweaters; some had watches that cost more than used cars. It was a world of comfort and upper-middle class privilege that I sought, and so I mimicked their style, accents and values. Who I was became irrelevant—it was paramount that I blend. Not be different, found out. It was easy to live up to this fiction because my mother never cared to visit me at school or took interest in the woman I was becoming.

In retrospect (and even reading what I’ve just written), it makes me unbelievably sad that I didn’t think I was enough of a person for people to love, to want to befriend. And, conversely, I didn’t give people enough credit—I didn’t believe in them enough to accept me for the person I was, rather than the image of them I had pretended to be.

And to complicate matters more, even when I was taking comfort in my new “skin,” I was constantly bewildered by the person beneath. By all appearances, I looked white, but I didn’t feel white. There was always a disconnect between the color of my skin and the texture of my hair—a whole history, a heritage, that my mother kept from me. So to say that the transference from one identity to another was seamless is difficult, because to this day I still struggle with questions of race. A whole other possible heritage I don’t yet have the ability to celebrate.

What has it been like exposing your past to friends and colleagues? Especially, what was the response like from people who knew you but didn’t know the truth?
For years the concept of people knowing about my past terrified me. I thought I would be judged because of my humble background, the fact that my mother was a drug addict. I felt as if I would be judged not for the person I was, but for the environment from which I came.

However, over the past few years, the most amazing thing has happened. Once I let go of the burden of shame and finally mourned losing my mother, it became easier for me to tell people the truth. My mother always told me that vulnerability is a weakness, a disease, and for the great portion of my life I wasn’t actually able to cry (unless I was drunk), and when I finally let my guard down, when I was finally honest with myself and with my friends, something entirely magical happened. All of these incredibly supportive friends emerged, and they listened and supported me without judgment.

The response from my colleagues and friends has been incredible. They support my strength to tell this story and, more importantly, my first full year of sobriety (from alcohol). I’d be lying if I said that everyone is my biggest fan—I lost a lot of friends over the years, however, my hope is that I’ll gain some of them back or they’ll come to appreciate the person I’ve become—a person who’s a better friend, a better person.

The book’s structure is very episodic. How did you decide it was the right way to tell the story? Was it ever written chronologically?
From the onset, I knew I could never write this book and the events that happened in my life in chronological order. The past is very much the present for me and vice versa. My mother is still very much a presence in my life, and sometimes I shiver when I look in the mirror because I resemble her more with each day’s passing. I’ll remember a certain word she always used—brazen, a certain tick of hers—smoothing flyaways—while I’m at dinner or on the subway coming home from work.

Additionally, the structure speaks to memory fracture, disorientation, and the constant feeling of unrest—all the things I’ve felt for the great period of my life and feel sometimes still. The story of my life is a great puzzle and this book was about trying to assemble the pieces in a way that makes sense to me.

In a sense, the book is also a conversation with her, one I hope that gives me closure.

How did you finally quit drugs and alcohol?
I don’t think there was any one moment or epiphany; it was rather a series of bottoms, a series of realizations that this (abusing cocaine and alcohol) wasn’t a way to live; it was a way to die. Although I come from a family of addicts, I didn’t need to become their legacy.

When did you last speak to your mother? Are you committed to keeping her out of your life regardless of response to the book?
We last spoke in the spring of 1997; I haven’t seen her since the summer of 1996. I wouldn’t say that I’m committed to keeping her out of my life; rather I’m committed to keeping myself healthy.

Are you actively pursuing information about the rest of your heritage, or embracing what you don’t know?
Right now, I’m focused on my sobriety and my well-being.

Cutting out addiction and destructive relationships must leave space in your life; with what and whom do you chose to fill your time now?

This is a wonderful question! When you get sober, everything has to change. Everything. The way you live your life, the people in it. I had to have some very uncomfortable conversations; I’ve had to excise some unhealthy people from my life. Without drugs and alcohol, I realized that there is so much more time! Without a constant hangover, there are so many other things to do! So many new memories made.

For the most part, my friends aren’t heavy drinkers, and we’d rather spend our time baking, taking day trips upstate to go hiking, or hosting clothing swaps, than going out and getting trashed, and wondering the next day how much of an ass we made of ourselves (which, for me, was a constant).

What have been the best and worst parts of putting it all out there with this book and accompanying autobiographical writing?
Best: The joy of having something I created and worked so tirelessly on out in the world.
Worst: The joy of having something I created and worked so tirelessly on out in the world.

How did you go about reconstructing scenes you’re remembering from very long ago?
Writing this book was at times frustrating. Because I was trying to render the most accurate portrayal of my life with my mother, I was consistently confused—caught between the memories my mother created and the events that actually happened—and found myself second-guessing events that had happened. In the cases where memory wasn’t reliable, I chose to keep those chapters out of the book. In other cases, such as in the chapter “The Burning I Don’t Remember,” I make a point to highlight how powerless I was against the history my mother invented for me. I have scars on my legs but I don’t remember how they got there. Do I believe my mother’s story that they were burned in a bathtub and a hospital trip that I don’t recall? Do I have any other option?

Regrettably, my mother excised all members of my family so accessing them was difficult because, embarrassingly enough, I don’t remember many of their last names or have any idea where they might live or whether they’re even alive. I did rely heavily on Gus – the man to whom my mother was engaged but never married, the man who I would come to call my father—to fill in the gaps. He was in our lives since I was twelve and he was privy to my mother’s confidence, which lent a great deal of perspective and sympathy to how I rendered her in the book.

Essentially, I wrote this book as honestly as I could, given the limitations. My mother tended to overuse certain phrases and I was in keeping to how she, and other characters, spoke and what they would say. But memory is a tricky thing, it’s fallible, and in the end, I wrote the book and the events in my life as I remembered them.

What’s your six-word memoir?
Girl with her eyes wide open.

Tags: Felicia Sullivan, memoir