Jennette McCurdy's Memoir I Am Glad My Mom Died Recalls Troubled Relationship With Her Mother

Jennette McCurdy was six years old when she had her first acting audition. Her mother’s dream was for her only daughter to become a star, and Jennette would do anything to make her mother happy.

So she went along with what Mom called “calorie restriction,” eating little and weighing herself five times a day. She endured extensive at-home makeovers while Mom chided, “Your eyelashes are invisible, okay? You think Dakota Fanning doesn’t tint hers?” She was even showered by Mom until age sixteen while sharing her diaries, email, and all her income.

In I’m Glad My Mom Died, Jennette recounts all this in unflinching detail—just as she chronicles what happens when the dream finally comes true.

A heartbreaking and hilarious memoir by iCarly and Sam & Cat star Jennette McCurdy about her struggles as a former child actor—including eating disorders, addiction, and a complicated relationship with her overbearing mother—and how she retook control of her life.

I’m Glad My Mom Died is an inspiring story of resilience, independence, and the joy of shampooing your own hair. Here's an excerpt:

Emily's dad has just been murdered and her mom is a suspect. A crying-on-cue audition for yet another network police procedural, Without a Trace, has just come through. The audition scene is a scene where Emily gets called in for an interrogation and starts getting overwhelmed and then the tears fall.

I'm sitting in the waiting room mustering up all my sadness when something shifts in me. It feels strange. I don't know how to describe it, but I know, my gut knows, that the tears aren't gonna come. I feel detached, disconnected, and then irritated.

I tug on Mom's arm. She dog-ears the diet section in her current issue of Woman's World. The diet section is her favourite, even though I'm not sure why. Mom's very petite, four foot eleven "and a whopping ninety-two pounds!" as she often announces with proud irony, knowing her pound count is far from whopping. She sets the magazine down on her lap and leans closer to me so I can whisper in her ear.

"Mommy, I don't think I'm gonna be able to cry." Mom looks at me, puzzled at first, and then her confusion turns to intensity.

I can tell immediately that she's switched into pep-talk mode, a role she switches into more often than is necessary because it makes her feel necessary. She furrows her eyebrows and tightens her lips. There's a childishness to this expression of hers, like she's a kid pretending to be an adult.

"Of course you will. You're Emily. You are Emily." Mom often says this when she's "getting me into character." She'll say, "You ARE Emily." Or Kelli. Or Sadie. Or whoever I'm supposed to be that day.

But today, right now, I don't feel like being Emily. I don't want to be Emily. This has never happened before, but it's happening now and it's scaring me. A part of me is resisting my mind forcing this emotional trauma on itself. A part of me is saying, "No. It's too painful. I'm not doing this."

That part of me is foolish. That part of me doesn't realize that this is my Special Skill, that this is good for me, for my family, for Mom. The more I can cry on cue, the more jobs I can book; the more jobs I can book, the happier Mom will be. I take a deep breath, then smile up at Mom.

"You're right. I'm Emily," I say half to convince Mom, half to convince myself.

The part of me that doesn't want to cry on cue is not convinced. That part of me screams that I'm not Emily, that I'm Jennette, and that I, Jennette, deserve to be listened to. What I want and what I need deserves to be listened to.

Mom finds the fold in her magazine, but just before she goes to reopen it, she leans over once more.

"You're gonna book this one, Emily."

But I don't. The audition doesn't go well. My heart isn't in it. I don't "feel my words." And worst of all, I do not cry on cue. I tank.

We're on the way home, in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 101 South. I'm sitting in my booster seat since I'm still small enough to be required to sit in it. I try to work on my history homework but I'm unable to focus because I'm too upset at myself over the audition.

I was in my head during it because that scary part of me decided to try and speak up. That part of me that doesn't want to be doing this.

"I don't want to act anymore," I say before I even realize I've said it. Mom looks at me in the rearview mirror. A mixture of shock and disappointment fills her eyes. I immediately regret saying anything.

"Don't be silly, you love acting. It's your favorite thing in the world," Mom says in a way that makes it sound like a threat.

I look out the window. The part of me that wants to please her thinks maybe she's right, maybe it is my favorite thing and I just don't know it, I just don't realize it. But the part of me that doesn't want to cry on cue, that doesn't want to act, that doesn't care about pleasing Mom and just wants to please me, that part of me screams at me to speak up. My face gets hot, compelling me to say something.

"No, I really don't want to. I don't like it. It makes me uncomfortable."

Mom's face looks like she just ate a lemon. It contorts in a way that terrifies me. I know what's coming next.

"You can't quit!" she sobs. "This was our chance! This was ouuuuur chaaaaance!"

She bangs on the steering wheel, accidentally hitting the horn. Mascara trickles down her cheeks. She's hysterical, like I was in the Hollywood Homicide audition. Her hysteria frightens me and demands to be taken care of.

"Never mind," I say loudly so Mom can hear it through her sobs. Her crying stops immediately, except for one leftover sniffle, but as soon as that sniffle is over, it's complete silence. I'm not the only one who can cry on cue.

"Never mind," I repeat. "Let's just forget I said anything. Sorry."

I suggest we listen to Mom's current favorite album, Phil Collins's . . . But Seriously. She smiles at the suggestion and puts it in the CD player. She flips to "Another Day in Paradise," and the song starts blasting through the speakers. Mom sings along. She eyes me in the rearview mirror.

"Come on! Why aren't you singin' along, Net?!" she asks giddily, her mood having switched.

So I start singing along. And I throw on my best fake smile to go with it. Maybe I wasn't able to bring the tears for Without a Trace, but I was able to bring the smile for Mom on our drive home. Either way, it's performing.

Extracted with permission from I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy, published by Simon & Schuster. You can also join SheThePeople’s Book club on Facebook, LinkedIn and Instagram.

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