Overview

Riding the housing boom of the 2000s, Diana Martin combed Austin for tired, rundown bungalows, bought them, and, with artistic flair, recast them into little gems for people looking for custom homes. Then Wall Street crashed. Trapped with three houses in a market where no one was buying, she couldn't make her mortgage payments. The banks--the same ones begging for government bailouts--began moving against her. Desperate to sell, she opened the door to an interested buyer--who tied her up, pistol-whipped her, and forced her onto her bed to rape her... Unemployed, bankrupt, and brutalized by the attack, Diana tumbled into the hell of post-traumatic-stress, mentally replaying the attack over and over again. Day after day, Diana lay on a couch named Marilyn, slowly recovering from a life shattered by faceless bankers and a random stranger with a pistol and his own urgent needs. This is the story of an indomitable woman who, with courage, uncanny humor, and the saintly aid of Marilyn, climbed out of the abyss of PTSD and in to the next chapter of her life.

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9780996110303

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Reviews

From KIRKUS REVIEW: TITLE INFORMATION A COUCH NAMED MARILYN: My Big Fat Mess Called PTSD Martin, Diana BellaVista Publishing House BOOK REVIEW In this memoir, a woman recounts her escape from an armed robber and her physical, emotional, and spiritual recovery from the experience. In October 2008, Diana Martin was facing the stress of a tanking real estate market after having gone into business full time as a house flipper-buying, renovating, remodeling, and selling properties. She'd always paid her bills and had good credit, but with three mortgages and no buyers, she was facing foreclosure and bankruptcy. So, when a man-The Guy, as she mostly refers to him-knocked on the door, grasping one of her flyers, she was hopeful. And then she felt the handgun at her head. She fought back, getting pistol-whipped into concussion and broken teeth; the robber zip-tied her hands together and demanded money. Following an inner voice, Martin ran, screaming, and escaped, finding safety with a neighbor. In fiction, the story would be over-but as Martin ably shows in this gripping memoir, recovery from trauma is not that simple. Returning home, she notices her cats' food bowls filled halfway with my dark, almost black, blood....They never show that part in the movies, people cleaning up their own mess. Having fought off one robber, Martin also had the overpaid thieves of Wall Street ruining her prospects. All she wanted to do was sleep on her lovely couch, named Marilyn for its seductive curves, but she had to start a new profession (which didn't go smoothly) and endure the extended stress of The Guy's trial. Readers will admire Martin's tenacity, honesty, and humor, as when first confronted by The Guy: Whoa, he wanted money from me? Get in line, buddy. Each insight is hard-won, and Martin limns the slow process well. She also describes images from meditation that have poetic resonance. The second half of the book is perhaps overdetailed, but this can be understood: Martin commits to fully tracing the difficulties she faced. This is that rare inspirational book without a trace of pink-cloud saccharinity. Remarkably honest, powerful, and vivid.

"From KIRKUS REVIEW: TITLE INFORMATION A COUCH NAMED MARILYN: My Big Fat Mess Called PTSD Martin, Diana BellaVista Publishing House BOOK REVIEW In this memoir, a woman recounts her escape from an armed robber and her physical, emotional, and spiritual recovery from the experience. In October 2008, Diana Martin was facing the stress of a tanking real estate market after having gone into business full time as a house flipper-buying, renovating, remodeling, and selling properties. She'd always paid her bills and had good credit, but with three mortgages and no buyers, she was facing foreclosure and bankruptcy. So, when a man-The Guy, as she mostly refers to him-knocked on the door, grasping one of her flyers, she was hopeful. And then she felt the handgun at her head. She fought back, getting pistol-whipped into concussion and broken teeth; the robber zip-tied her hands together and demanded money. Following an inner voice, Martin ran, screaming, and escaped, finding safety with a neighbor. In fiction, the story would be over-but as Martin ably shows in this gripping memoir, recovery from trauma is not that simple. Returning home, she notices her cats' food bowls ""filled halfway with my dark, almost black, blood....They never show that part in the movies, people cleaning up their own mess."" Having fought off one robber, Martin also had the ""overpaid thieves"" of Wall Street ruining her prospects. All she wanted to do was sleep on her lovely couch, named Marilyn for its seductive curves, but she had to start a new profession (which didn't go smoothly) and endure the extended stress of The Guy's trial. Readers will admire Martin's tenacity, honesty, and humor, as when first confronted by The Guy: ""Whoa, he wanted money from me? Get in line, buddy."" Each insight is hard-won, and Martin limns the slow process well. She also describes images from meditation that have poetic resonance. The second half of the book is perhaps overdetailed, but this can be understood: Martin commits to fully tracing the difficulties she faced. This is that rare inspirational book without a trace of pink-cloud saccharinity. Remarkably honest, powerful, and vivid."

Author Information

Diana Martin is a writer and artist, which she says translates in to having worked a long series of second and third jobs. After 27 ventur- ous years in Alaska, and several in Austin, Texas, Diana now lives in Massachusetts with her sweetheart and two cats.

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