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"A book that became a cultural touchstone." -- The New Yorker
Elizabeth Wurtzel writes with her finger in the faint pulse of an overdiagnosed generation whose ruling icons are Kurt Cobain, Xanax, and pierced tongues. In this famous memoir of her bouts with depression and skirmishes with drugs, Prozac Nation is a witty and sharp account of the psychopharmacology of an era for readers of Girl, Interrupted and Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar.
and run up the flight of stairs from her basement office and I feel suddenly liberated. I keep telling myself over and over again that I am going to be fine, and of course, I really am fine, as fine as I can be knowing that this is the end. I open the bathroom door, lock myself in, find the bottle of Mellaril and pour all the pills into my hand, open my mouth, and swallow them. I have become pretty proficient at taking pills without water, without anything to wash them down, but I stand at the
arrears. Dolsie Somah is the reason that there is occasionally a pathway to my bedroom amid all the mess; she’s also, as far as I can tell, the most kind and virtuous person on earth. Thanks to Shirly Ip, Irina, and everyone at the Peter Coppola Salon for being as nice to me as they are to Stephanie Seymour, and for understanding that it is just as hard to write when your roots are growing out as it is to pose for the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Thanks to John Lambrose for being such an apt
only thing that could have possibly stopped the din was the peace, the silence, of my father’s withdrawal from the situation, leaving me and my mother alone to muddle through. There was so much bad blood between them, mostly running through me, that one of them had to go, and since my father was the one who lived his life by default, who’d forfeited so much of it to the haze of Valium and the cold comfort of shutting down, it had to be he. He didn’t actually disappear until the end of my
anymore. But still they’re there, stuck somewhere, a flaw that evolution hasn’t managed to eliminate yet, like tonsils or an appendix. I want so badly to feel bad about getting pregnant, beyond, of course, the surprise and shock. But I can’t, don’t dare to. Just like I didn’t dare tell Jack that I was falling in love with him when I was down in Texas, wanting to be a modern woman who’s supposed to be able to handle the casual nature of these kinds of relationships. I’m never supposed to say, to
therapists say to their crazy patients, all the usual things about mothers and fathers and early childhood trauma. “I don’t really want to talk about that right now. I just, I don’t have the energy.” I sighed. I was exhausted. I sat up and reached for the plate he’d brought for me and start twisting strands of spaghetti around my fork. “I want to make sure that you’re not totally sick of me.” “Elizabeth, for God’s sake, I said I’m not.” He inhaled dramatically and shook his head. “I love you. I