This is a guest book review from

Megan Cyrulewski is an ordinary person who has faced extraordinary challenges and now wants to inspire people and show them that hope gives them the power to survive anything. Who Am I? is about her journey into post-partum depression, anxiety disorder, panic attacks, visits to the psych ward, divorce, domestic violence, law school, and her courageous struggle to survive with her sanity intact—and how a beautiful little girl emerged from all this chaos.

“This is a tale that will tug at your heart strings and enrage you all at the same time. Written with such detail and sincerity, this story really takes hold of you and doesn’t let go.”


– review from Amazon

“More than a Survivor of this story, so very much more. Megan’s unabashed, truthful and, at times, brutal account of her first-hand experience with her ex-husband should be mandatory reading for people everywhere.”


– review from Amazon

“This book is great and very inspirational. I wish more people had as much courage as Megan to speak up and tell others of their experience with this type of situation.”


– review from Amazon

Guest Review:

I want to begin by saying that when you are reading someone’s very personal story and you get angry with him or her or their choices and then you reflect and quickly sit back and say, “Hey that’s been me on soooo many occasions!” I am angry with this person because I have been there and felt like a failure just like her. It was tough to get through some parts of the book, not because it was poorly written, rather it was because it was painful to look into her reality and see your own life reflected back. Marriage and raising children is tough work, really tough.

Megan Cyrulewski blatantly reveals this in her honest and painful description of bad life choices and trying to keep your head above water when it might seem easier to just let life overtake you and throw in the towel. If not for her parents’ support I could not imagine how this young determined mother could have survived. At times I could not help thinking, “Oh God, please just stop whining and lighten up a bit!!” I suppose every life is different and Megan was not afraid to expose her weaknesses, which only made the book that much more relevant, even after those words and paragraphs made me annoyed with her.

I could not imagine airing all my dirty flaws and leaving them out there for the world to judge. I admit I was being judgmental at times and this in itself was worth reading the book because it made me reflect on why I felt like I had the right to judge. This book made you think of these much deeper human emotions and feelings. In the end as her character developed she almost seemed to withdraw from her whining helpless self and she began to draw power from her legal experience. At this point the story becomes much more stated facts and less emotional in a way. In the end I cannot say who the winner was, since much of the book involved relaying the details of her battle with the Ex. Her daughter still did not have a stable relationship with her father, unfortunately common in these days. Megan does move on which was a plus. Letting go is always good.

You can find the author on the following sites…

About the Author

Megan Cyrulewski has been writing short stories ever since she was ten-years-old. After attending Grand Valley State University, Megan eventually settled into a career in the non-profit sector for eight years. She decided to change careers and went back to school to get her law degree from Thomas M. Cooley Law School. While in school, she documented her divorce, child custody battle and postpartum depression struggles in her memoir which is slated to be published on August 2 by Black Opal Books. Megan lives in Michigan with her 3-year-old daughter who loves to dance, run, read, and snuggle time with Mommy. Megan also enjoys her volunteer work with Troy Youth Assistance.

Book Excerpt

On January 18, 2012, we all convened in the courthouse for the Motion for Parenting Time hearing. My dad and I arrived with my attorney, but Tyler loved an audience so he brought his dad, step-mom, and his new on-again off-again girlfriend, Heather

.

Tyler walked in with his posse in tow, cocky as hell. It took all of two minutes for the judge to knock him off his feet.

The Judge addressed our respective attorneys. “Why are we here?”

“Your honor,” Tyler’s attorney began, “my client has clearly been denied his parenti—”

The Judge didn’t even let him finish. “How?” She turned to my attorney. “Don?”

“Your honor, as you can see in the divorce decree, there was supposed to be a review when the minor child turned twelve-months-old. The Defendant has ignored that review.”

“I—if I may, your honor,” Tyler’s attorney sputtered.

“I see the review in the decree. It’s here in black and white,” she told Tyler’s attorney. “What is the problem? Why didn’t you understand the review? Your client signed the divorce decree.”<

Tyler’s attorney tried again. “But your honor—”

The judge cut him off. “There is to be a review conducted by the Friend of the Court referee assigned to the parties. Until then, the Defendant will continue his parenting time schedule as agreed upon in the divorce decree. Dismissed.”

And that was it. After eight police reports and numerous harassing text messages, phone calls, and e-mails, we won. As Don and Tyler’s attorney went to speak with the clerk to file the necessary paperwork, Don told us to wait for him outside the courtroom.

As we exited the courtroom, the hallway was so packed with people that my dad and I were only able to find enough space to lean against the wall. We were talking about the court proceedings when we looked up at saw Tyler and his new girlfriend standing right across from us.

“Why do you lie about everything?” Tyler screamed.

Heather walked up to me and stood about an inch from my face. “As a mother myself, you should be happy that Tyler is the father of your child.”

My jaw dropped. “I’m sorry but I don’t know you.”

She smirked. “Well you’re going to get to know me, bitch.”

Tyler made a big show of pulling her from me like I was going to punch her or something. By this time, everyone in the hallway was watching us. We were pure entertainment.

Heather continued her rant. “Two times in the psych ward, Megan? What a great mother you are.”

“Where is your mom, the real mother of our child?” Tyler screamed. “She’s the one who takes care of Madelyne.”

My dad and I tried to move away from Tyler and Heather but they followed us.

“Awww…” Heather mocked. “Do you have to take a Xanax because of your anxiety?”

“Go take your Xanax and sleeping pills, you drug addict,” Tyler shouted.

Finally, Don emerged from the courtroom and pulled us into a quiet corridor. He explained that I needed to call our referee to set-up a meeting to discuss a visitation schedule. I told Don about the verbal assault by Tyler and Heather. Don said he would call Tyler’s attorney to let him know that Heather would not be allowed in my house.

Upon leaving the courthouse, Heather screamed, “See you on Sunday, Megan.”

I turned toward her and said calmly, “I don’t know you, but you are

not

welcome in my home.”

That night, Tyler sent me multiple texts attacking my mothering skills, my supposed drug addictions, how he was going to fight for joint custody of Madelyne, how Heather would be accompanying him for his visitations, and a barrage of other insults:

“Get a life already”

“Don’t you have something better to do than wasting your parents’ money?”

“Go take your pills and relax, oh yeah, then your parents would have to watch our daughter. Oh yeah, they already do.”

“Go talk to your friends. Oh yeah, you don’t have any because of how crazy you are.”

“Interesting to know you’ve been to the hospital a couple of times. You really need to get it together.”

“Better go call your lawyer and make up some more stuff about me.”

“Don’t be mad at your sorry life.”

“I am sure living with Mom and Dad the rest of your life will be fun.”

“When you get a job, then you can pay me child support. Fun.”

I finally had to turn my phone off at midnight.

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