Terrible book by a terrible person.
Let me start off by saying that I hope this is largely fictionalized.
The author is consistently just … mean. She’s mean to everyone but saves her heaviest blows for her mother and her sister. I can’t imagine a family that would stay in contact after she not only said but *actually published* her unflinchingly petty and self-centered critiques of everyone but herself. I listened to the whole book thinking a painful self-realization was just around the corner, but no. She’s the hero of this story.
Assuming the book is somewhat true, it is obvious from the first few minutes that the author has been traumatized in the past. Her mother is clearly emotionally abusive. That’s enough. There’s no need to find any further source of trauma. An abusive parent is traumatic. Still, she circles around the idea that she was molested in daycare. Finally an aunt tells her she outcried when she was three. Triumphant, she tells her therapist that she was molested. When he challenges that sudden realization after years of therapy without other signs of that particular type of trauma, she ignores him. She knows her truth. She doesn’t need permission from anybody to pin all her problematic behavior on one incident that may or may not have actually happened.
Maybe it really did—we just don’t know because there is no exploration of it. We’re just supposed to accept it along with her or she’ll walk away from us like she did her therapist at the end of that session.
I guess that gets to my real issue with this book. As mean as the author is, as self-centered and obnoxious as she seems proud to be, the book doesn’t make any sense.
Which editor let this shoddy manuscript see the light of day?
Good books have been written about bad people. (The Picture of Dorian Gray comes to mind.) But those books clearly tell a story. There is plot. There is cause and effect.
The author loves helping her family; she’s the decision-maker and leader. And then, without any explanation, she hates that role and hates her family for forcing her to accept it. She loves her dog and sees him as a bridge to her nephew, but when she adopts her nephew she is “all alone.” Tom resents her one day and is deeply in love the next. Oh, and somewhere near the end she seems to start caring what God thinks.
My favorite non sequitur is when, halfway through what the author admits is a half-assed attempt at completing AA’s twelve steps, her sister is in a terrible car crash. Remember, this sister is the loser drug addict who the author used to beg for Adderall. The author thanks God that she was able to give her half-assed amends to her sister before the accident. The sister survives, but her presence is minimized. In that moment, though, when her sister might have died, the author was thinking about the boxes she was able to check off a list she admits mattered little to her.
The overarching story is salvageable: Woman struggles with the world’s expectations and finally decides to tell the world to get lost. Adderall is part of that journey. So is alcohol. And so is a completely irredeemable mother.
Salvageable but not terribly interesting.
The part that drew me in initially was the idea that the problem wasn’t exactly Adderall. The problem was perfection. Adderall was a means to an end. I had hoped for a condemnation of unrealistic expectations in all area of life: work, body image, family.
Unfortunately, I’ve come away disappointed. The author mentions perfection a lot but doesn’t really wrestle with it as an idea. That’s disappointing, since she seems particularly positioned to know and explain the illusory nature of “perfection.” If a week of all-nighters doesn’t get you what you want, maybe you should think about whether what you want is even possible.
The author touches on how she was more productive sober than on Adderall, but she never questions the value of productivity.
This book reads like a frenzied first draft—but not frenzied in a way that would imply the breakneck pace of life on Adderall. It’s more like the quickly rising mound of a chain smoker’s ash tray.
It’s all there; now you figure out what to do with it.
And once we have it, she takes it away.
Remember the irredeemable mother? The author thanks her at the end for her constant love and “for giving [her] the courage to follow [her] dreams.”
Was the irredeemable mother an exaggeration? Or does the author interpret her actions as constant love?
Even though her mom is emotionally abusive in every scene and constantly criticizes the author’s weight and life choices, the latter interpretation would be more believable, given what little I know about trauma bonding and codependency.
But that brings us back to the beginning. If she thinks her mom loves her, why does she spend so much time belittling her in the book?
…
The only part of the book that is obviously fictional is the names of the doctors the author uses to get Adderall. I lost count by the end, but each doctor was numbered chronologically. She went to Doctor One before Doctor Two and then Doctor Three, etc.
Everything else…
Now that I think about it, it’s interesting that someone so obsessed with perfection would put out a book with so many imperfections. Maybe she’s learning to let go. I hope so.
But you should let the book go too.