“Prozac Nation” in the era of “Aggressive Antipsychotic America”
Does it hold up?
I was nine when “Prozac Nation: Young and Depressed in America” was published. The author, Elizabeth Wurtzel, was a 20-something navigating the devastation that is depression and narrating her story of survival. The book tested boundaries — like what it means to write a memoir and who we think has the right to — as well as offered readers a raw and graphic look into Wurtzel’s life with mental illness. “Prozac Nation” was written with authenticity, vulnerability, and candor and became a New York Times bestseller. People were clearly curious about crazy bitches. And I can say that because I, myself, am a crazy bitch.
Bipolar disorder took up permanent residence in my brain when I was 15 and I must say I’m glad no one plopped a copy of Wurtzel’s book in my hands. Back then I would’ve panicked thinking my life would be an identical copy of Wurtzel’s clinical clusterfuck of a staggering existence (I think she’d agree with my word choices). But let me backup because I need to explain something. I’m forgetting to shed light on a vital rite of passage for we, the mentally ill. When you are freshly diagnosed with a mental illness there is a sacred, ceremonial tradition where someone finds a book about your disorder and bequeaths it to you with the hope that it will serve as a guidebook to making you less bonkers. I think these books have the potential to be helpful, they can normalize your experiences and make you feel less alone, but so many of them miss the mark and can even have the opposite effect. I remember when I was officially diagnosed at 17 my parents gifted me Kay Redfield Jamison’s memoir. Jamison is a brilliant clinical psychologist with bipolar disorder who frolicked her way through medical school, conquering her illness one accomplishment at a time. Gifted, confident, crushing expectations…Not exactly relatable. I remember reading a few pages of her book and thinking how fucked I must be. We share an illness and yet while she was excelling at life I was struggling to make it through high school. I wasn’t ready for Jamison just as I wasn’t ready for Wurtzel. I was busy trying to find my own words to tell my own story.
I’m glad I read “Prozac Nation” now though (spoiler alert I still don’t have a taste for Jamison). I had heard of the book before but it didn’t pop up on my radar until Wurtzel tragically passed away from breast cancer this past January. As I read her memoir there were times I found her “antics” to be “dramatic” but I realized I needed to challenge my emotional knee jerk reactions to her story. Wurtzel and I did have a few things in common. In high school my mental illness was construed as a cry for attention. I reluctantly donned the title of drama queen because it felt like an easier identity to fill than being who I really was, a nut job. My thoughts were erratic and my behavior matched and being labeled as an attention seeker was convenient and gave some of the adults in my life a pass to be negligent. It’s easier to ignore a drama queen then help a crazy girl. I think Wurtzel would’ve totally related.
Truthfully, I don’t really like this memoir. There are parts of the book where Wurtzel’s behaviors border on annoying and the relationships she cultivates with people are toxic enough that her interactions are pretty cringeworthy. Wurtzel feels like she’s a lot to handle — which she fully owns — but even just reading about her every day life was pretty exhausting. Overall Wurtzel’s words don’t really fit into my relationship with mental illness but I do feel the misfit kinship. Struggling with an illness that people want to see to believe but then are alarmed when you let them in and they see you start to unravel. Craving a life free from — or at least not dominated by — symptoms. Calling a winner in the fighting match between illness and identity. I admire Wurtzel as an author whose decision to publish her memoir was pretty brave as it opened her up to a lot of scrutiny. Critics lamented that this was a story of a whiny, malingering teen who didn’t have enough life under her belt to write a memoir. But I think the existence of her book — the amplification of her voice- did its part challenging the long standing patriarchal tradition of gaslighting and dismissing the voices of “difficult” women. Misogyny, manipulation, and mental illness have always had a tangled relationship when it comes to disempowering women. We have the right to raise our voices, make our own choices, and define our own worth. As a “difficult” woman who is also a writer I can’t help but acknowledge the crazy bitches in the past who have helped give me a platform. I hope I can pay the gift forward. In closing, while I didn’t enjoy this book I respect Wurtzel’s story.
Right now many of us are self quarantined and practicing self distancing. (If you are a medical professional or an individual who has no choice but to go to work, thank you! I hope you stay safe!) As I sit in my house making the most of my quarantine I’ve decided to read and review different mental health themed books and hopefully drum up a conversation. Is there a book that helped you adjust to life with a mental illness? Is there a book that did some damage to your psyche? Like it, love it, hate it? I wanna hear it. I’d also love any recommendations! There’s a lot of power in these stories and even more so when you share them with your community. You never know who you might be helping with your recommendation.
On a scale from:
1 (forced upon you by your shitty white male psychiatrist) — 5 (made your crazy ass feel hopeful)
I give this book a 2.5 (your cognitive fog has lifted so you can read and retain details but you’d rather just read the synopsis and watch “Grace and Frankie”)
Stay safe everyone!
