When I picked up The Way She Feels, I fully expected to love it. In a lot of ways, I imagine that I’m the target audience for this graphic memoir: I’ve been talking to my therapist recently about the differences between BPD and clinical depression/PTSD, my favorite books this year have examined mental illness or trauma, and I’m a big fan of both women’s memoirs and graphic nonfiction. However, I was both frustrated and disappointed while reading this book, and in the end, I felt it was too oblivious, disjointed, and shallow to recommend to others.
First of all, I think there’s a gulf between the contents of this memoir and what it says on the tin (“My Life on the Borderline in Pictures + Pieces”). While Cook suffers from Borderline Personality Disorder and competently summarizes the stigma she faces, her distinct experiences as someone with BPD often slip into the background, particularly in the anecdotes that feel more universal than specific. Half the chapters in this book delve into memories or emotional states that would be familiar to a wide swath of readers. For instance, many of us remember our shock after Trump’s election in 2016 or were confronted with an adult relative’s illness as a self-interested teen, so it’s difficult to identify exactly what’s unique in Cook’s perspective or how her BPD is relevant to the aforementioned stories. Amongst this mundane recounting of the author’s adolescence and early adulthood, I struggled to find the insight or impact I was expecting.
Unfortunately, the half of this book that isn’t mundane is uncomfortably sensationalized. The other sections do dive into specific experiences of mental illness and treatment, like a long-term stay at an inpatient treatment facility for at-risk youth and the effects of chronic dermatillomania and trichotillomania, although they’re ultimately quite simplistic. Cook tends to obsess over the most attention-grabbing or quotidian details, which prevents the narrative from fulfilling its potential. In the section on the treatment facility, the text is overwhelmingly preoccupied by a laundry list of administrative rules, daily or weekly routines, and the myriad ways that the staff keep the girls from self-harm or escape. I came away from this chapter understanding that the facility was an intermittently irritating and comforting place to live, but none of it felt genuinely unexpected or illuminative.
Then, there’s the skin picking.
I have dermatillomania. Like Cook, I’ve suffered from chronic skin picking since childhood. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t pick. And, if anyone was interested, I could provide a full description of my body when it was a bloody, gory, and pus-leaking mess of my own making, as well as a word-picture of how much shame I feel when anyone sees what I’ve done to myself. However, the appearance of my skin and my shame, while perhaps attention-grabbing or shocking, isn’t really what skin picking is about, nor would it deepen your understanding of why I pick. I know this because I’ve had lots and lots and lots of conversations about how bad my skin looks and how embarrassed I am of it. If you don’t pick your skin/hair or you are unfamiliar with these disorders, I’m sure this type of conversation would be somewhat diverting, but for me, as someone who lives with this condition and has for decades, it’s superficial and repetitive. But that’s also all we get here – the tweezers, the Band-Aids, the soul-deep embarrassment are the full extent of our gaze into dermatillomania, which felt like a shallow misstep for a book that promised to be so much more.
While I read The Way She Feels, I was also distracted by the author’s privilege. I don’t need books to center “relatable” or “likeable” women, nor am I opposed to reading the narratives of the rich and comfortable (far from it!), but I do find it odd when privilege is flatly unacknowledged or an author is seemingly unaware of how many advantages they’ve received. At every turn of this memoir, Cook finds herself in a warm bubble of familial support, financial comfort, access to healthcare, academic opportunity, and professional success, although she never directly addresses her exceptional circumstances. The mismatch between my awareness of Cook’s privilege and her apparent obliviousness created an awkward dissonance as I read, where instead of fully connecting with her, I kept wondering if she knew how fortunate she was to attend a private arts school after a 10-month hospitalization or if she’s aware that most people with moderate or severe mental illness don’t conclude stress-inducing MFA programs with a plan for full-time employment and a book deal.
The final straw came at the end, in a section entitled “Ode to the Psychiatrist I Hate Who Gives Me Good Drugs”. Cook opens this chapter by explaining that she prefers to see mental health professionals who look like “more put-together” versions of herself. Specifically, she gravitates towards petite white women with fair hair, whom she can project a “wiser, more mature” image onto. By itself, I don’t see any problem with this. It precludes her from seeing BIPOC professionals, but that’s her business, I guess. Treatment is a weird, scary, and vulnerable process, and ideally everyone should have the opportunity to choose their therapist for their own reasons, even if it’s incomprehensible from the outside. But then, Cook goes on to describe why she hates her current psychiatrist: the psychiatrist is “rotund in a jolly, Mrs. Claus type of way” and her office suggests she has niche hobbies. In case we still don’t get it, there’s an unflattering illustration of this individual included as a reference! In other words, this psychiatrist has a fat body, so Cook is unable or unwilling to project an image of competency or aspiration onto her, and thus dislikes receiving care from her. Honestly, I find it absolutely unacceptable that this level of anti-fat bias would remain in a traditionally published memoir without a hint of interrogation by either the author or editor. Perhaps this interlude was intended to be quirky or tongue-in-check, but its charm was totally lost on me.
I’ve hemmed and hawed over this review for days. I wrote and re-wrote it, and it’s so long and personal because I wanted to show that I didn’t take my low rating of this book lightly. I find Cook’s stated commitment to represent the BPD community inspiring and commendable, but I wouldn’t recommend this memoir.