I feel like a disclaimer is needed here because Shahd was my professor during my undergrad, a mentor during my postgrad, a current colleague, but most importantly, a friend whom I love dearly and whom I'm very proud of for writing this book. It is also worth mentioning that I'd finished this book a while ago but I did not want to mark it as read without a proper send-off-- i.e. a thorough review.
This book is genuine in that it does not claim to be anything it is not. It is messy because it wants to be, because it is meant to be so, because writing oneself is messy business and because memories are scattered, they crisscross, overlap, override each other, and in many ways, so does this book. It gets repetitive sometimes because that's how we recall things. Memory is not linear, rather an interweaving web of things that actually happened and things as we saw them, as we remember them--and those are two completely different things. This book is not perfectly written, perfectly structured, because if it was, it would be a lie and not the truth. The purpose of an illness narrative, I think, is to reflect the state of its author, and not satisfy a reader who wants a neat, clear narrative--a mistake which I found myself making while reading this book.
This book teeters on the edge of fiction and non-fiction, it writes and rewrites itself, it is about negotiating identity and one's place within a society that expects more, that likes to dismiss what it does not understand as "other". This book is hybrid par excellence; it revolves around what it's like to occupy a space that is neither here, nor there. It is about borders and pushing the borders between health and sickness, mind and body, Self and Other, individual and society.
This book is entirely itself--it is Shahd Alshammari.