As promised, 338: A Memoir is now available in eBook formats via Amazon’s Kindle store ($2.99) and Smashwords (free for a limited time/name your price.) If you do take the time to download and read it, please rate/review! Either way, you’re awesome for life in my
338: A Memoir…I’m finally done. With over 30-years in the making and at least ten years in writing and putting it off until a proper ending unfolded, I’m so done. I hope it sheds some light on what’s happening in our country’s mental health industry
Three more chapters have been added to 338: A Memoir by Andrea Afra. If you’ve been following along, you can click here to pick up where you left off—Chapter 7: Jimbo. Read Chapters 1-9 now in the original post or wait a bit longer for the full
Three more chapters set free… you can read them now in the original post or wait a few more weeks until the remaining chapters are released.
338 was the number assigned to me, and to others who were there before and after me. I’ve never met another 338, but maybe this story will finally reach one. I hope they’re okay, whoever they are. And if you’ve ever been there, no matter your number, I hope you’re okay now too.
338 was the number assigned to me, and to others who were there before and after me. I’ve never met another 338, but maybe this story will finally reach one. I hope they’re okay, whoever they are.
Diego drank first then poured a cup for his wife. They’ve held these ceremonies every Friday for the last eight years and yet she still had a pained expression as she swallowed the drink. A woman assisting with the ceremony went next. Lucy followed. She looked beautiful and serious in the candlelight. Then it was my turn.
Dear Mom, A friend of yours told a story about you at your memorial service that said so much about you and your love for life and people and nature. You told her that when a butterfly passed by, it was on its way to
By Andrea Afra After investing several days of my sixth summer into the wiggling and tugging of a loose tooth, victory was finally mine. I held pinched between my thumb and forefinger the very first bottom tooth I had ever lost: The Right Central Incisor.