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dejahentendu's review against another edition
5.0
I had almost no idea what this book was about when I borrowed it, just that Roxanne Gay recommended it. For most of the book, I thought, well this isn't that great, but I'll finish it. And then, bang! In the last essay she talks about a schizophrenia diagnosis, and how it's affected her life. Ho.Ly.Fuck. My mind was completely blown when I heard the litany of symptoms related. Inability to read well due to focus, inability to start things, sleeping 12 h/day, nightmares, just all this stuff I see in my daughter and none of the scholarly articles mention. Additionally, she talked about the paranoia making her think people were picking on her when they were just fucking being people! My daughter and I have had so many conversations related to this and neither one of us ever made the connection! Just wow.
lifeinpoetry's review against another edition
5.0
Lee describes one of the cruelest aspects of schizophrenia in a way that shook me and had me saying, there's a name for it:
Alogia, for example: a lack or poverty of speech, one of the so-called negative symptoms of my illness. I’ve experienced this my whole life without having a name for it. This has only grown more pronounced for me, to the point that engaging verbally with others, beyond my partner, is grueling. With her I can prattle on so she forgets, until we’re in the company of others, that around others, I barely speak at all.
When I used to attend, with my partner’s friends, doughnut Sundays, I stayed silent, noticeably silent, embarrassingly silent, during conversation. Her friends didn’t know that these occasions were often the only social engagement I’d had in a week’s time, if not longer—and that this absence of social engagement isn’t accidental, but purposeful, one of the only ways I can find to ameliorate my condition, despite the tremendous loneliness that accompanies such social isolation.
My silence has always been a problem. Others have attributed negative intent on my behalf, assuming my silence is selfish, that I am purposely keeping back my thoughts for myself, when in reality, I am often too afraid to speak, not sure when and where to insert myself into the conversation. Like a novice trying to surf, my movements are uncoordinated—I’m not quite sure when to throw myself up onto my elbows, push and stand, and so instead I lie passively, while the waves of conversation lap and tide, and I miss every appropriate window to enter midstream.
More than simple fear, I oftentimes am simply unable to verbalize—a symptom of my illness that has become more pronounced. Being robbed of the ability to speak means lacking the social graces of small talk. It means missing out on connection. It means being unable to voice inner objections.
The negative and cognitive symptoms of my illness are what are so disabling. These symptoms, the ones no one talks about, recognizes, or knows, are the ones that render me nearly nonfunctional so frequently. The positive symptoms—the hallucinations, the delusions—are what keep me terrified of what could be.
Alogia, for example: a lack or poverty of speech, one of the so-called negative symptoms of my illness. I’ve experienced this my whole life without having a name for it. This has only grown more pronounced for me, to the point that engaging verbally with others, beyond my partner, is grueling. With her I can prattle on so she forgets, until we’re in the company of others, that around others, I barely speak at all.
When I used to attend, with my partner’s friends, doughnut Sundays, I stayed silent, noticeably silent, embarrassingly silent, during conversation. Her friends didn’t know that these occasions were often the only social engagement I’d had in a week’s time, if not longer—and that this absence of social engagement isn’t accidental, but purposeful, one of the only ways I can find to ameliorate my condition, despite the tremendous loneliness that accompanies such social isolation.
My silence has always been a problem. Others have attributed negative intent on my behalf, assuming my silence is selfish, that I am purposely keeping back my thoughts for myself, when in reality, I am often too afraid to speak, not sure when and where to insert myself into the conversation. Like a novice trying to surf, my movements are uncoordinated—I’m not quite sure when to throw myself up onto my elbows, push and stand, and so instead I lie passively, while the waves of conversation lap and tide, and I miss every appropriate window to enter midstream.
More than simple fear, I oftentimes am simply unable to verbalize—a symptom of my illness that has become more pronounced. Being robbed of the ability to speak means lacking the social graces of small talk. It means missing out on connection. It means being unable to voice inner objections.
The negative and cognitive symptoms of my illness are what are so disabling. These symptoms, the ones no one talks about, recognizes, or knows, are the ones that render me nearly nonfunctional so frequently. The positive symptoms—the hallucinations, the delusions—are what keep me terrified of what could be.
ang_easterling's review against another edition
5.0
This is possibly one of my favorite memoirs of all time..
pennym_'s review against another edition
emotional
reflective
medium-paced
3.5
messy and beautiful. i especially appreciated the discussion about fluid queer idenity and the intersection of being a person of color and also queer and grappling with conflicting cultural values. a very well done memoir
easemily's review against another edition
2.0
very disappointing, I didn't have high hopes for it but I hoped it would be better
tsunanisaurus's review against another edition
4.0
"How does one capture a fair picture of a person,
if the pieces don't add up to what we expect?"
This book is complicated. It's reflective. Deeply personal. Ambiguous. Frustratingly vague. Misses the mark on one topic but then swoops in and hits it critically in another. You could say it mirrors a lot of the terrain in life. We are left with mess, with questions, with wanting more. We are also guided through Lee navigating queerness, abuse, mental health, identity, life as a immigrant's child, life as the child of a deteriorating parent. It's written in the forceful whisper of someone who has fought to find their footing.
"She and I experienced, in tandem, two different versions of the same reality"
Some of the most touching moments were shared as Lee delved into her personal relationship with her girlfriend. She writes tenderly, she writes hopefully, lovingly, curiously, gratefully, of her girlfriend. The story of her making her girlfriend's favorite dish was so endearingly and made me smile thoughtfully, reminding me of the first time I made biryani for my ex. It's a special moment, romantic or not, to reach out on a limb to try and make the comfort dish for another person.
"I think of home as something I build with those whim I love, and as something I find reflected within them"
That being said, I never feel fully comfortable "critiquing" someone's memoir, it's their life and only they truly know it. So, my critiques are only on how the writing felt seeping into me. I began to be put off by just how often she made sure the reader knew her girlfriend was Pakistani, as if her girlfriend did not exist outside of that. She made it a point to describe the nationality of everyone she knew, I'm not entirely sure why, it felt very oddly specific when placed against the general ambiguousness of the essays.
The essays feel deeply personal and vastly vague at the same time.
The first few essays hold the potential for power that just isn't found throughout the rest of the narrative (for me). I grew somewhat frustrated with the ambiguous nature of all the "big" things. Passing references to the whole reason she writes. Passive everything. I became lost among the intricate conversation of climbing. Honestly, I don't know how Lee managed to give so much feel of rawness while maintaining a cloak of mystery. Keeping a wall between herself and the reader while still sharing intimate details.
My personal feelings aside, I recommend this book still. It's a voice that needs to be heard. Multiple stigmas that need to be shattered and spoken about. It addresses what it's like to watch your parents cognitive decline far before their time. It's a voice I haven't seen much in literature and that needs to be amplified.
BUT I JUST WANT TO SAY: I respect the heck out of Roxane Gay but good grief she isn't a deity okay? Laura Lee, you stand on your own two feet. I honestly feel like repeated mentions of Gay's impact in the making of the book did it a disservice. It casts a shadow over it instead of illuminating it. It must've been incredible to have an amazing person like Roxane be your mentor but your story is your own and your words are your own. The books needs its own space to flourish.
Thank you to Atria Books and NetGalley for providing me an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for my opinion
if the pieces don't add up to what we expect?"
This book is complicated. It's reflective. Deeply personal. Ambiguous. Frustratingly vague. Misses the mark on one topic but then swoops in and hits it critically in another. You could say it mirrors a lot of the terrain in life. We are left with mess, with questions, with wanting more. We are also guided through Lee navigating queerness, abuse, mental health, identity, life as a immigrant's child, life as the child of a deteriorating parent. It's written in the forceful whisper of someone who has fought to find their footing.
"She and I experienced, in tandem, two different versions of the same reality"
Some of the most touching moments were shared as Lee delved into her personal relationship with her girlfriend. She writes tenderly, she writes hopefully, lovingly, curiously, gratefully, of her girlfriend. The story of her making her girlfriend's favorite dish was so endearingly and made me smile thoughtfully, reminding me of the first time I made biryani for my ex. It's a special moment, romantic or not, to reach out on a limb to try and make the comfort dish for another person.
"I think of home as something I build with those whim I love, and as something I find reflected within them"
That being said, I never feel fully comfortable "critiquing" someone's memoir, it's their life and only they truly know it. So, my critiques are only on how the writing felt seeping into me. I began to be put off by just how often she made sure the reader knew her girlfriend was Pakistani, as if her girlfriend did not exist outside of that. She made it a point to describe the nationality of everyone she knew, I'm not entirely sure why, it felt very oddly specific when placed against the general ambiguousness of the essays.
The essays feel deeply personal and vastly vague at the same time.
The first few essays hold the potential for power that just isn't found throughout the rest of the narrative (for me). I grew somewhat frustrated with the ambiguous nature of all the "big" things. Passing references to the whole reason she writes. Passive everything. I became lost among the intricate conversation of climbing. Honestly, I don't know how Lee managed to give so much feel of rawness while maintaining a cloak of mystery. Keeping a wall between herself and the reader while still sharing intimate details.
Spoiler
I suppose her schizophrenia diagnosis, which you don't learn about until the very end of the book, plays into the disassociated wedge that can be placed between the person and reality in order to maintain safety of your realityMy personal feelings aside, I recommend this book still. It's a voice that needs to be heard. Multiple stigmas that need to be shattered and spoken about. It addresses what it's like to watch your parents cognitive decline far before their time. It's a voice I haven't seen much in literature and that needs to be amplified.
BUT I JUST WANT TO SAY: I respect the heck out of Roxane Gay but good grief she isn't a deity okay? Laura Lee, you stand on your own two feet. I honestly feel like repeated mentions of Gay's impact in the making of the book did it a disservice. It casts a shadow over it instead of illuminating it. It must've been incredible to have an amazing person like Roxane be your mentor but your story is your own and your words are your own. The books needs its own space to flourish.
Thank you to Atria Books and NetGalley for providing me an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for my opinion