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  Sylvia Plath for the technological age.

  Now, it seems, personal tales of woe and suffering are ten-a-penny; you can’t look at any book store window without seeing somebody’s story of abuse, abduction or addiction, but in 1995, when Elizabeth Wurtzel wrote down her experiences of depression, self-harm and a teenage life spent under the care of the medical establishment, there was something raw and new about her “emotional exhibitionism” which caught the attention; here was a Sylvia Plath for the technological age.

  Wurtzel’s story is at once distressing, frustrating, amusing and perplexing. As she describes her repeated breakdowns, attempts at suicide and journeys towards self-destruction, you lurch between a desperate wish to hug the girl and to shake her. And as for the therapists and doctors she eviscerates with words, you wish you could do as much for them in reality; their ineptitude leads one towards despair.

  You don’t need to be a sufferer of depression to appreciate this memoir, any more than you need to be young and American. It’s a frightening glimpse into what can happen when depression is written off as a minor attention-seeking ailment, and a lesson that we should all take on board.

  Although many people have described Elizabeth Wurtzel as self-indulgent and melodramatic, it is important to remember that thus is the nature of the disorder; without the self-obsession, there is no depression. The way that Wurtzel tackled her problems is courageous and the way that she writes of them is clever, thoughtful and very touchingly funny.

  This is a fantastic book in many many ways.

  Review by Emily Hirschmann on 14:04, 04 Apr 2008

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