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A review by alefloresm
Prozac Nation by Elizabeth Wurtzel
4.0
Initially reading the book I was mesmerized by her sharp and incredibly sardonic, angsty writing style, as well as her alliance with counter cultural ideals. (her being a rock n roll music journalist in the 90s). Just like the film it is cathartic as it is self indulgent.
After sometime around the halfway mark of the book, I couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by the indulgent self mythologizing of her disorder. I accept that self mythologizing is a key aspect of memoirs, but sometimes I couldn't wait to finish reading the book, assuming she got better, I couldn't wait to finally finish the book as to quell her privileged despair. Besides all this, it was still an entertaining read given that I myself have had harmful-to-those-around-me- swallowing depressive episodes, that if I had Wurtzels writing talent, I would have been just as self indulgent in terms of writing all these calls to allusions and expressions of describing depression. Depression is ugly, and Wurtzel does not shy away from writing her experience in a way that is so ostentatiously "ugly" that it makes you step back and consider how your own handling of depression, as well as being a depressive burden can be seriously obnoxious to others given the burden that is having to undergo reading Wurtzel's personal account. Wurtzel is privileged enough to have attended Harvard, has always had stable housing, (and affording both of these without any full time job) remarkably always having good friends as an accessible shoulder to cry on, and last of my criticisms- the opportunity to travel around not only the U.S, but to Europe. These made for petty annoyances that I had to tell myself before I continued to read the book to try and abstain from judging or feeling like I belonged on some moral high horse. Ironically Wurtzel describes the idea of feeling like she had to prove her depression as if she were the "sickest of them all", which reflects the alienating sensation that is depression, when it becomes so inextricably your identity and you become plunged in a cycle of "Im sick and I cant control it but ill try and chase after a unknown cure which in turn this chase will set out to destroy me"/ "what nourishes me also destroys me".
This book makes me want to contemplate my own perceptions and bias's regarding the nature of the depressed. Some petty annoyances turn into sympathy, on the basis of empathizing that no matter how good I think Wurtzel has it, depression is a destructive mental paradigm that tunnel visions you to only focus on the negative and drown in the banal. I realize everyone and especially those who have felt depressed obsess over excusing and finding root causes of their depression, plunging them in a spiral of overthinking of what ifs and whys, and desperately wishing they could wake up as somebody else to avoid further complicating yourself. Depression is shameful, and it makes you guilty as you start to contemplate the objective good in your life, even if you know you have it good, it doesn't mean you'll start reacting according to it, it wont cure you, because depression is an illness, a sickness of perception and the numbing of interest.
I appreciate that this novel wasn't an attempt or received as aestheticized depression, considering the popularity of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, where I think the main character had few redeeming qualities as the book read as perversely privileged (even if the point of that book was to illustrate an unsavory character, the way it was received and aestheticized online had turned the main character into a icon for depressed wealthy white women, why do we always put their stories first? the glamorous idealization of a beautiful thin sad girl, crying her expensive makeup off as she swallows a handful of pills).
Prozac Nation has its great moments of wit, social and cultural commentary (honestly my favorite parts), poetic devices as to describe the pain and repulse that is depression, and references to great musicians who's careers are also to express feelings of anguish. The book is a worthwhile read, at moments introspective and what I feel would be most valuable to potential readers is that it is relatable in the way of unapologetically expressing a feverish disarray of a mental sickness. if you are into reading "irritating emotional exhibitionism" you will not regret reading this book.
After sometime around the halfway mark of the book, I couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by the indulgent self mythologizing of her disorder. I accept that self mythologizing is a key aspect of memoirs, but sometimes I couldn't wait to finish reading the book, assuming she got better, I couldn't wait to finally finish the book as to quell her privileged despair. Besides all this, it was still an entertaining read given that I myself have had harmful-to-those-around-me- swallowing depressive episodes, that if I had Wurtzels writing talent, I would have been just as self indulgent in terms of writing all these calls to allusions and expressions of describing depression. Depression is ugly, and Wurtzel does not shy away from writing her experience in a way that is so ostentatiously "ugly" that it makes you step back and consider how your own handling of depression, as well as being a depressive burden can be seriously obnoxious to others given the burden that is having to undergo reading Wurtzel's personal account. Wurtzel is privileged enough to have attended Harvard, has always had stable housing, (and affording both of these without any full time job) remarkably always having good friends as an accessible shoulder to cry on, and last of my criticisms- the opportunity to travel around not only the U.S, but to Europe. These made for petty annoyances that I had to tell myself before I continued to read the book to try and abstain from judging or feeling like I belonged on some moral high horse. Ironically Wurtzel describes the idea of feeling like she had to prove her depression as if she were the "sickest of them all", which reflects the alienating sensation that is depression, when it becomes so inextricably your identity and you become plunged in a cycle of "Im sick and I cant control it but ill try and chase after a unknown cure which in turn this chase will set out to destroy me"/ "what nourishes me also destroys me".
This book makes me want to contemplate my own perceptions and bias's regarding the nature of the depressed. Some petty annoyances turn into sympathy, on the basis of empathizing that no matter how good I think Wurtzel has it, depression is a destructive mental paradigm that tunnel visions you to only focus on the negative and drown in the banal. I realize everyone and especially those who have felt depressed obsess over excusing and finding root causes of their depression, plunging them in a spiral of overthinking of what ifs and whys, and desperately wishing they could wake up as somebody else to avoid further complicating yourself. Depression is shameful, and it makes you guilty as you start to contemplate the objective good in your life, even if you know you have it good, it doesn't mean you'll start reacting according to it, it wont cure you, because depression is an illness, a sickness of perception and the numbing of interest.
I appreciate that this novel wasn't an attempt or received as aestheticized depression, considering the popularity of My Year of Rest and Relaxation, where I think the main character had few redeeming qualities as the book read as perversely privileged (even if the point of that book was to illustrate an unsavory character, the way it was received and aestheticized online had turned the main character into a icon for depressed wealthy white women, why do we always put their stories first? the glamorous idealization of a beautiful thin sad girl, crying her expensive makeup off as she swallows a handful of pills).
Prozac Nation has its great moments of wit, social and cultural commentary (honestly my favorite parts), poetic devices as to describe the pain and repulse that is depression, and references to great musicians who's careers are also to express feelings of anguish. The book is a worthwhile read, at moments introspective and what I feel would be most valuable to potential readers is that it is relatable in the way of unapologetically expressing a feverish disarray of a mental sickness. if you are into reading "irritating emotional exhibitionism" you will not regret reading this book.