Literature & Fiction
![Amber Smith - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_amber_smith.jpg)
The Way I Used to Be
A New York Times bestseller.
In the tradition of Speak, this extraordinary debut novel "is a poignant book that realistically looks at the lasting effects of trauma on love, relationships, and life" (School Library Journal, starred review).
Eden was always good at being good. Starting high school didn't change who she was. But the night her brother's best friend rapes her, Eden's world capsizes.
What was once simple, is now complex. What Eden once loved-who she once loved-she now hates. What she thought she knew to be true, is now lies. Nothing makes sense anymore, and she knows she's supposed to tell someone what happened but she can't. So she buries it instead. And she buries the way she used to be.
Told in four parts-freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior year-this provocative debut reveals the deep cuts of trauma. But it also demonstrates one young woman's strength as she navigates the disappointment and unbearable pains of adolescence, of first love and first heartbreak, of friendships broken and rebuilt, all while learning to embrace the power of survival she never knew she had hidden within her heart.
In the tradition of Speak, this extraordinary debut novel "is a poignant book that realistically looks at the lasting effects of trauma on love, relationships, and life" (School Library Journal, starred review).
Eden was always good at being good. Starting high school didn't change who she was. But the night her brother's best friend rapes her, Eden's world capsizes.
What was once simple, is now complex. What Eden once loved-who she once loved-she now hates. What she thought she knew to be true, is now lies. Nothing makes sense anymore, and she knows she's supposed to tell someone what happened but she can't. So she buries it instead. And she buries the way she used to be.
Told in four parts-freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior year-this provocative debut reveals the deep cuts of trauma. But it also demonstrates one young woman's strength as she navigates the disappointment and unbearable pains of adolescence, of first love and first heartbreak, of friendships broken and rebuilt, all while learning to embrace the power of survival she never knew she had hidden within her heart.
Editorial Reviews
"The Way I Used to Be explores the aftermath of sexual assault with a precision and searing honesty that is often terrifying, sometimes eerily beautiful, and always completely true. It is The Hero's Journey through a distorted circus mirror--one girl's quest to turn desperation into courage, to become a survivor instead of a victim. Amber Smith gets it exactly right." -- Amy Reed, author of BEAUTIFUL and CLEAN
STARRED REVIEW "This is a poignant book that realistically looks at the lasting effects of trauma on love,relationships, and life….Teens will be reminded of Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak. VERDICT An important addition for every collection." ― School Library Journal
"A difficult, painful journey, but teens who have experienced rape and abuse will be grateful for this unvarnished and ultimately hopeful portrait. Eden's shell-shocked narrative is an excellent narrative conduit for what Smith has to say." -- Booklist ― February 1, 2016
"This is far from a feel-good read, but I can't implore how necessary it is to read a book like this one . . . As unforgettable and stirring as Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak, Smith's provocative debut is best described as a survival story with hope and anger serving as prominent themes so fully explored they simmer off the page." ― The Young Folks
"Readers will root for her as she gathers the courage, at last, to speak up." ― BN Teen blog
"The Way I Used To Be is an intensely gripping and raw look at secrets, silence, speaking out, and survival in the aftermath of a sexual assault. A must-have for every collection that serves teens." ― SLJ / Teen Librarian Toolbox
"Easily one of the hardest books to read on this list. Brutal, raw and emotional… Eden's story gets told on her terms, in her voice. An honest look at one teen's struggle to find her way back to herself, to mold herself into the survivor she is." ― FANGIRLISH
"THE WAY I USED TO BE promises to be meaningful, significant, and truly unforgettable." ― FIKTSHUN
"Don't let a book of this magnitude pass you by. Pick it up and read it because Eden's story demands to be read." ― Once Upon a Twilight
"With an achingly beautiful narr...
STARRED REVIEW "This is a poignant book that realistically looks at the lasting effects of trauma on love,relationships, and life….Teens will be reminded of Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak. VERDICT An important addition for every collection." ― School Library Journal
"A difficult, painful journey, but teens who have experienced rape and abuse will be grateful for this unvarnished and ultimately hopeful portrait. Eden's shell-shocked narrative is an excellent narrative conduit for what Smith has to say." -- Booklist ― February 1, 2016
"This is far from a feel-good read, but I can't implore how necessary it is to read a book like this one . . . As unforgettable and stirring as Laurie Halse Anderson's Speak, Smith's provocative debut is best described as a survival story with hope and anger serving as prominent themes so fully explored they simmer off the page." ― The Young Folks
"Readers will root for her as she gathers the courage, at last, to speak up." ― BN Teen blog
"The Way I Used To Be is an intensely gripping and raw look at secrets, silence, speaking out, and survival in the aftermath of a sexual assault. A must-have for every collection that serves teens." ― SLJ / Teen Librarian Toolbox
"Easily one of the hardest books to read on this list. Brutal, raw and emotional… Eden's story gets told on her terms, in her voice. An honest look at one teen's struggle to find her way back to herself, to mold herself into the survivor she is." ― FANGIRLISH
"THE WAY I USED TO BE promises to be meaningful, significant, and truly unforgettable." ― FIKTSHUN
"Don't let a book of this magnitude pass you by. Pick it up and read it because Eden's story demands to be read." ― Once Upon a Twilight
"With an achingly beautiful narr...
Readers Top Reviews
Madison DixonShar
This book instantly grabbed my attention and ran off with it. Read it I. 2 days. The way it’s written makes you feel understood through your own trauma. Like you aren’t alone in your fight!
I've read countless books, both for work and pleasure. After a while, the plots and characters start to run together, and the stories I'm reading now become no more memorable than the last. The Way I Used to Be is one of the few books that stand apart from the rest. The story follows Eden, a sexual assault survivor who just started high school. Her story is told in four parts, starting as a freshman dealing with the crushing pain of being hurt in the worst way by someone she trusted. We watch as she struggles to come to grips with what happened. I read this book when I was the same age as the main character, and my heart still hurts when I think back on that time. As a reader, I'm careful of books like this because they can leave me feeling drained and empty. I was both by the time I finished, but I also felt so much more. It's weird and rare for me to feel proud of a fictional character, but that's what I was. Eden was so well-written. She felt like a friend I'd known my whole life, or maybe even a part of myself, and when she hurt, I hurt. What happens to her and the aftermath of it was hard to read but so worth reading. As a woman, I've grown up on the cautionary tales of sexual abuse. Where to spot it, how to avoid it, what to do after. Most of my knowledge of sexual assault comes firsthand from friends and family who've experienced it. With this comes ingrained hyperawareness and the naive thought that, despite having never experienced it myself, I understood it. But nothing compares to being inside the head of someone who has lived it. There is so much more that goes on than I could've ever imagined. It was eye-opening and painful because so much of the aftermath is just silent suffering. I can't help but think back to the countless stories I've heard and wonder what parts my friends sugar-coated, or left out completely, for my benefit. It hurts to know that there is nothing I could do for the pain I couldn't see. Though I emphasized with Eden the most, I also felt for her friends and family, because I have played that role before, and I can only hope that I was there for them when they needed me. I think this is a book that everyone should read, if not for the chance to better understand the thought process and actions of a survivor, then for the simple pleasure of reading a well-written, heartwrenching story with a brave and resilient main character.
Cai Madison Dix
I loved this book and the way the Author did it. phenomonal!
tessa cookelemmy
Easy read so easy that I couldn’t put the book down.
Short Excerpt Teaser
The Way I Used to Be
I DON'T KNOW A LOT of things. I don't know why I didn't hear the door click shut. Why I didn't lock the damn door to begin with. Or why it didn't register that something was wrong-so mercilessly wrong-when I felt the mattress shift under his weight. Why I didn't scream when I opened my eyes and saw him crawling between my sheets. Or why I didn't try to fight him when I still stood a chance.
I don't know how long I lay there afterward, telling myself: Squeeze your eyelids shut, try, just try to forget. Try to ignore all the things that didn't feel right, all the things that felt like they would never feel right again. Ignore the taste in your mouth, the sticky dampness of the sheets, the fire radiating through your thighs, the nauseating pain-this bulletlike thing that ripped through you and got lodged in your gut somehow. No, can't cry. Because there's nothing to cry about. Because it was just a dream, a bad dream-a nightmare. Not real. Not real. Not real. That's what I keep thinking: NotRealNotRealNotReal. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like a mantra. Like a prayer.
I don't know that these images flashing through my mind-a movie of someone else, somewhere else-will never really go away, will never ever stop playing, will never stop haunting me. I close my eyes again, but it's all I can see, all I can feel, all I can hear: his skin, his arms, his legs, his hands too strong, his breath on me, muscles stretching, bones cracking, body breaking, me getting weaker, fading. These things-it's all there is.
I don't know how many hours pass before I awake to the usual Sunday morning clamor-pots and pans clanging against the stove. Food smells seeping under my door-bacon, pancakes, Mom's coffee. TV sounds-cold fronts and storm systems moving through the area by midday-Dad's weather channel. Dishwasher-running sounds. Yippy yappy dog across the street yips and yaps at probably nothing, as always. And then there's the almost imperceptible rhythm of a basketball bouncing against the dewy blacktop and the squeaky-sneaker shuffling of feet in the driveway. Our stupid, sleepy suburbia, like every other stupid, sleepy suburbia, awakens groggy, indifferent to its own inconsequence, collectively wishing for one more Saturday and dreading chores and church and to-do lists and Monday morning. Life just goes, just happens, continuing as always. Normal. And I can't shake the knowledge that life will just keep on happening, regardless if I wake up or not. Obscenely normal.
I don't know, as I force my eyes open, that the lies are already in motion. I try to swallow. But my throat's raw. Feels like strep, I tell myself. I must be sick, that's all. Must have a fever. I'm delirious. Not thinking clearly. I touch my lips. They sting. And my tongue tastes blood. But no, it couldn't have been. Not real. So as I stare at the ceiling, I'm thinking: I must have serious issues if I'm dreaming stuff like that. Horrible stuff like that. About Kevin. Kevin. Because Kevin is my brother's best friend, practically my brother. My parents love him like everyone does, even me, and Kevin would never-could never. Not possible. But then I try to move my legs to stand. They're so sore-no, broken feeling. And my jaw aches like a mouthful of cavities.
I close my eyes again. Take a deep breath. Reach down and touch my body. No underwear. I sit up too fast and my bones wail like I'm an old person. I'm scared to look. But there they are: my days-of-the-week underwear in a ball on the floor. They were my Tuesdays, even though it was Saturday, because, well, who would ever know anyway? That's what I was thinking when I put them on yesterday. And now I know, for sure, it happened. It actually happened. And this pain in the center of my body, the depths of my insides, restarts its torture as if on cue. I throw the covers off. Kneecap-shaped bruises line my arms, my hips, my thighs. And the blood-on the sheets, the comforter, my legs.
But this was supposed to be an ordinary Sunday.
I was supposed to get up, get dressed, and sit down to breakfast with my family. Then after breakfast, I would promptly go to my bedroom and finish any homework I hadn't finished Friday night, sure to pay special attention to geometry. I would practice that new song we learned in band, call my best friend, Mara, maybe go to her house later, and do dozens of other stupid, meaningless tasks.
But that's not what's going to happen today, I know, as I sit in my bed, staring at my stained skin in disbelief, my hand shaking as I press it against my mouth.
Two knocks on my bedroom door. I jump.
"Edy, you up?" My mother's voice shouts. I open my mouth, but it feels like someone poured hydrochloric acid down my throat and I might never be ab...
I DON'T KNOW A LOT of things. I don't know why I didn't hear the door click shut. Why I didn't lock the damn door to begin with. Or why it didn't register that something was wrong-so mercilessly wrong-when I felt the mattress shift under his weight. Why I didn't scream when I opened my eyes and saw him crawling between my sheets. Or why I didn't try to fight him when I still stood a chance.
I don't know how long I lay there afterward, telling myself: Squeeze your eyelids shut, try, just try to forget. Try to ignore all the things that didn't feel right, all the things that felt like they would never feel right again. Ignore the taste in your mouth, the sticky dampness of the sheets, the fire radiating through your thighs, the nauseating pain-this bulletlike thing that ripped through you and got lodged in your gut somehow. No, can't cry. Because there's nothing to cry about. Because it was just a dream, a bad dream-a nightmare. Not real. Not real. Not real. That's what I keep thinking: NotRealNotRealNotReal. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Like a mantra. Like a prayer.
I don't know that these images flashing through my mind-a movie of someone else, somewhere else-will never really go away, will never ever stop playing, will never stop haunting me. I close my eyes again, but it's all I can see, all I can feel, all I can hear: his skin, his arms, his legs, his hands too strong, his breath on me, muscles stretching, bones cracking, body breaking, me getting weaker, fading. These things-it's all there is.
I don't know how many hours pass before I awake to the usual Sunday morning clamor-pots and pans clanging against the stove. Food smells seeping under my door-bacon, pancakes, Mom's coffee. TV sounds-cold fronts and storm systems moving through the area by midday-Dad's weather channel. Dishwasher-running sounds. Yippy yappy dog across the street yips and yaps at probably nothing, as always. And then there's the almost imperceptible rhythm of a basketball bouncing against the dewy blacktop and the squeaky-sneaker shuffling of feet in the driveway. Our stupid, sleepy suburbia, like every other stupid, sleepy suburbia, awakens groggy, indifferent to its own inconsequence, collectively wishing for one more Saturday and dreading chores and church and to-do lists and Monday morning. Life just goes, just happens, continuing as always. Normal. And I can't shake the knowledge that life will just keep on happening, regardless if I wake up or not. Obscenely normal.
I don't know, as I force my eyes open, that the lies are already in motion. I try to swallow. But my throat's raw. Feels like strep, I tell myself. I must be sick, that's all. Must have a fever. I'm delirious. Not thinking clearly. I touch my lips. They sting. And my tongue tastes blood. But no, it couldn't have been. Not real. So as I stare at the ceiling, I'm thinking: I must have serious issues if I'm dreaming stuff like that. Horrible stuff like that. About Kevin. Kevin. Because Kevin is my brother's best friend, practically my brother. My parents love him like everyone does, even me, and Kevin would never-could never. Not possible. But then I try to move my legs to stand. They're so sore-no, broken feeling. And my jaw aches like a mouthful of cavities.
I close my eyes again. Take a deep breath. Reach down and touch my body. No underwear. I sit up too fast and my bones wail like I'm an old person. I'm scared to look. But there they are: my days-of-the-week underwear in a ball on the floor. They were my Tuesdays, even though it was Saturday, because, well, who would ever know anyway? That's what I was thinking when I put them on yesterday. And now I know, for sure, it happened. It actually happened. And this pain in the center of my body, the depths of my insides, restarts its torture as if on cue. I throw the covers off. Kneecap-shaped bruises line my arms, my hips, my thighs. And the blood-on the sheets, the comforter, my legs.
But this was supposed to be an ordinary Sunday.
I was supposed to get up, get dressed, and sit down to breakfast with my family. Then after breakfast, I would promptly go to my bedroom and finish any homework I hadn't finished Friday night, sure to pay special attention to geometry. I would practice that new song we learned in band, call my best friend, Mara, maybe go to her house later, and do dozens of other stupid, meaningless tasks.
But that's not what's going to happen today, I know, as I sit in my bed, staring at my stained skin in disbelief, my hand shaking as I press it against my mouth.
Two knocks on my bedroom door. I jump.
"Edy, you up?" My mother's voice shouts. I open my mouth, but it feels like someone poured hydrochloric acid down my throat and I might never be ab...
