Every Shitty Thing: One Woman's Journey Through Brothers, Betrayals and Botox

Sometimes the shit we go through leads to our greatest victories...

By the time Marcia was a teenager, she had been betrayed by every male in her life. Her childhood of abuse, insecurity and self-loathing was spent in the working-class suburbs of Sydney in the 1970s. Food was her only solace, a gypsy life her dream. But at the edge of the abyss, there was light in the darkness. Every Shitty Thing is a memoir about betrayal, deception, heartbreak and endurance, with humour between the threads. It's about hope and never giving up on love. This is Marcia's story of learning to trust again after a lifetime of betrayal, and how she came to embrace the understanding that the shit we go through - no matter how awful - leads us exactly where we need to be.

PRAISE for Every Shitty Thing

I couldn't put it down. I read Every Shitty Thing in one sitting. I felt like I inhaled and didn't exhale until I'd consumed all of it. An engrossing and agonising read... just when I thought nothing worse could happen ... it did... but at the same time the story is engaging, witty and warm. This is a book about courage and resilience, and what it means to keep showing up even when the odds are stacked against you. Marcia writes bravely and fearlessly. Thank you for sharing your story. Especially the difficult parts.

Kate Shand, Author

Every Shitty Thing is a heart-wrenching tale that peels back the cover of childhood trauma and its long-lasting effects. But it is so much more than that. It is a tale of family, of betrayal, of the things we do for love and what is done to us in love's name. Marcia's armour is dented in places, shattered in others, but with hope as her weapon, she fights for the life and love she deserves. Told with honesty and humour, this is a book I couldn't put down.

Amanda J Spedding, two-time Australian Shadows Award winner

Sometimes the biggest mistakes of our lives turn out to be the greatest miracles...

Marcia pulled herself from the brink of self-extinction for one good reason - she had a daughter. Funny thing is, she had never wanted to be a mother. She had borne the brunt of male brutality, yet she survived only to encounter further betrayals and losses. And just when she thought she couldn't go on, she did - with wicked humour and a will to survive. This is a tough and tender ode to a heart and spirit that refused to shatter. A gift of hope to anyone who has ever wanted to give up and then tried again.

Joanne Fedler, Internationally bestselling author

Author: Marcia Abboud
Publisher: Jubel Publishing
Published: 06/21/2018
Pages: 298
Binding Type: Paperback
Weight: 0.97lbs
Size: 9.00h x 6.00w x 0.67d
ISBN: 9780648305804

About the Author
Abboud, Marcia: - "I live in Melbourne, Australia, with my husband Ramzi. We love high-rise apartment living. It's something neither of us could have imagined earlier in our lives. The downsizing was traumatic, but there is something remarkably cleansing about ditching a lifetime of accumulated shit you really didn't need after all. I wish I had learned that years ago. I was born and raised in Sydney's inner-west and spent much of the 1970s in what I now describe as suburban hell. The youngest of three, and the only girl, my brothers and I learned the meaning of streetwise from a young age. Looking back, I'm not sure if it helped or hindered my long-term survival - a bit of both, I guess. Sydney is where my heart belongs. It's where my daughter and granddaughter live, and I travel there often to be with them. I became a grandmother at the age of 49 and it wasn't a title I was ready for or had given any thought to. But Boopy - as I call her - came into my life in August 2013 and stole my heart from the moment I first laid eyes on her. My mother was right about a grandchild's love: there is nothing on earth like it. I've come to realise that only a grandparent can know the true meaning of this. I am a traveller at heart. I just have to learn to pack less. My husband would agree. My toiletries alone fill half a suitcase. Clearly a gypsy life was always going to be a pipedream. Embarrassingly, I have never been to Europe despite my heritage. My father was an Italian immigrant who came to Australia when he was 19. He never went back to his homeland, and so I never met my Italian grandparents. It's too late now, but one day when I finally get to Italy I will seek out my extended family and see the village where my father was born. 'Eating clean' are words I'd like to use to describe myself, but I'm a shameless sugar addict from way back. The older I get though, the more conscious I am of sustainability, so I do try and be good. What my body once accepted without drama, it now rejects with vengeance. Including running. I started running when I was 34. It gave me the kind of high you can't buy. I love everything about that feeling: the start, the rhythm, the momentum, the breath, the sweat, the elation - only a true runner will know what I mean. I miss it every day. Damn my hip flexors and knees! I eventually found my calling, albeit late in life: writing. Writing actually gives me the kind of clarity I can't muster when I speak. I may be exaggerating, but most of the time I feel that my brain and mouth are two separate entities. Mind you, there's a lot of debris in there, and the fog doesn't help! There is something to be said for grown-up love. I only learned this later in life during my second marriage. The downside comes with a shitload of baggage and is one thing you really can't plan for. Just as well I haven't lost my sense of humour! Between marriages - and aged 42 - I was single for five years. I wrote a blog about men and dating, a kind of Sex and the City journal. People told me it was really funny. If Candice Bushnell hadn't already written the book, I would have. Soon I'll be working on my second book, Every Fabulous Thing. I hope it won't take long, but given my history shit is bound to happen... I have other books in my mind, swirling in the debris, waiting to get out. For people who don't know me, Marcia is pronounced Mar-C-a, not Marsha, as in The Brady Bunch. My friends call me Marce, Marcy and sometimes Moo - my granddaughter calls me Moo-Moo. I'll answer to most names except Marsha. Lastly, it's taken me 50 years to realise my life isn't about punishment. Finally, I understand that all the shit I've been through isn't random or coincidental. I believe it was necessary - and it's got me to exactly where I need to be. It's a work in progress, and so am I..."

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