Most of us remember the ominous echo of our parents’ words
ringing in our young and frustrated ears: “One day, you’ll
understand, and you will thank us for this.” If you’re still
looking for an epiphany, find one in time for Mother’s Day in
Augusten Burroughs’ bestselling memoir Running with Scissors.

Perhaps the most unbelievable aspect of this book is that it’s
all true, and that Burroughs escaped his childhood with his sanity
virtually intact. He was socialized (I hesitate to use the term
“raised”) by his chain-smoking, candle-wax eating, Christmas-tree
hurling mother who dreamed of becoming a famous poet a la Anne
Sexton and believed that her son was a responsible adult at age
13.

It’s uncertain who is more mentally unstable: Augusten’s mother
or her psychiatrist, who becomes Augusten’s legal guardian and
bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus. Dr. Finch has a
penchant not only for propagating psychological disorders, but also
for taking his mental patients into his home. As part of his
mother’s treatment, Augusten becomes part of the doctor’s
spectacularly dysfunctional family.

Being forced to live in a dilapidated Victorian home with the
Finches took the edge off of Augusten’s obsessive compulsions,
which included polishing his jewelry to the point where the gold
finish wears off, boiling nickels in a pot on the stove and
deep-conditioning his hair overnight with VO5 and Saran wrap.

Each of the book’s chapters are vignettes, building upon each
other but retaining the ability to stand alone as the shining
jewels of a child whose world has gone completely insane.

The only thing that saved Augusten is his sense of humor, his
tilted view of the world revealed in similes that are off-kilter
but undoubtedly ingenious.

Burroughs reincarnates an unforgettable cast of characters, and
the Finch children land among the most memorable. Whether it’s
playing with the old electroshock therapy machine, the adopted
pedophile living in the shed, communicating with the dying family
cat in a dream or going whale-watching in a McDonalds uniform,
these children are Augusten’s only friends, and they will become as
dear to the reader as they are to Burroughs.

It’s a memoir on par with Angela’s Ashes, but unlike Frank
McCourt’s tale, it probably won’t end up on any high school summer
reading lists. Augusten’s story becomes intertwined with a
significant amount of objectionable material that is saddening and
disheartening, but a necessary part of his story nonetheless.
Readers who were turned off by the most offensive scenes in
Angela’s Ashes should steer clear of Scissors, which deals with
sexuality in a frank and graphic manner.

Regardless, Running with Scissors will have you laughing out
loud, even in public places. It will also bring about an acute
awareness of, and appreciation for, normalcy in your own life.

“The problem with not having anyone tell you what to do, I
understood, is that there was nobody telling you what not to do,” a
15 year-old Burroughs observed. After reading this novel, I
couldn’t be more thankful for my overbearing parents–even if I
still have a 12 o’clock curfew.