Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit, by Jeanette Winterson.
This book seized me about halfway through and oddly enough, it’s tough for me to explain why I loved it so much. Shared experiences—especially if they are traumatic, especially if they are specific to women, especially if they are oppressive, especially if they happened in the church, and especially if you don’t recognize these things for what they are until 20 years later—require very little talking, very little dialogue. I just understood it all, and I guess that’s why it’s so difficult to completely explain why.