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Yesterday I was helping a friend get rid of some books he didn't want and there was a copy of Prozac Nation. For some reason, I thought I'd be a good idea to rescue it from the donation bin and read it.
(Do not expect anything resembling critical distance from me about this book. For all I know, the writing is utter crap. I'm far too close to the subject to be even remotely rational about it.)
On the one hand, it's nice to know that I'm not the only person who has spent most of her life feeling like her brain is trying to destroy her. On the other, reading this book is just painful.
One of the main themes is how the author always felt like she couldn't just go full-on crazy and let someone else deal with the inevitable fallout. And, while the details are completely different, that hits so close to home for me that I can't even get through a chapter without having to distract myself somehow.
It's got me seriously wondering how many of the people who I'm close to (none of whom are particularly sane, thank gods) grew up feeling that they had no safety net. That, if they, personally, failed to hold it together, all would be lost. Not only would they be lost, but all those people who were supposed to be protecting them would be utterly broken, too.
I think if I had a poll among my friends, we'd probably find that all of us felt like the glue that held everything together for everyone other than ourselves. And that's probably the most depressing thought I've had since I started taking my pills everyday.
Other than the thinking, life continues on... I get the feeling that the end of Angel tomorrow is going to hurt, but, truthfully, I'm thrilled to be hurt by the fictional. It's so much easier to explain and dissect and share than life. ::glomps flist::
(Do not expect anything resembling critical distance from me about this book. For all I know, the writing is utter crap. I'm far too close to the subject to be even remotely rational about it.)
On the one hand, it's nice to know that I'm not the only person who has spent most of her life feeling like her brain is trying to destroy her. On the other, reading this book is just painful.
One of the main themes is how the author always felt like she couldn't just go full-on crazy and let someone else deal with the inevitable fallout. And, while the details are completely different, that hits so close to home for me that I can't even get through a chapter without having to distract myself somehow.
It's got me seriously wondering how many of the people who I'm close to (none of whom are particularly sane, thank gods) grew up feeling that they had no safety net. That, if they, personally, failed to hold it together, all would be lost. Not only would they be lost, but all those people who were supposed to be protecting them would be utterly broken, too.
I think if I had a poll among my friends, we'd probably find that all of us felt like the glue that held everything together for everyone other than ourselves. And that's probably the most depressing thought I've had since I started taking my pills everyday.
Other than the thinking, life continues on... I get the feeling that the end of Angel tomorrow is going to hurt, but, truthfully, I'm thrilled to be hurt by the fictional. It's so much easier to explain and dissect and share than life. ::glomps flist::
