“Prozac Nation: Young and Depressed in America” isn’t an easy book to get through. It’s author, journalist-turned-lawyer Elizabeth Wurtzel, would be the first to admit this.
“I know how taxing it is to do something even as small and brief as having a meal with a depressive,” she writes. “We are such irritating people, can see the dark side of everything, and our perpetual malcontentedness kind of ruins it for everybody.”
Which is why it’s nearly impossible to get through Wurtzel’s 368-page memoir. She’s a Debbie Downer, who overanalyzes and complains — capitalizing on her unhappiness with a book-turned-movie deal.
A Harvard grad growing up in a single-parent, Jewish home in New York City during the ’70s and ’80s, Wurtzel traces her depression to her childhood. Her parents divorced when she was young. Her father often babysat her under the influence of Valium before he disappeared from her life. And her mother didn’t understand her depression, sending her to summer camp and therapy like ordering broken taillights to be fixed.
Depression, however, “is more like a cancer,” than a broken car. “Slowly, over the years, the data will accumulate in your heart and mind, a computer program for total negativity will build into your stem, making life feel more and more unbearable,” she writes. “But you won’t even notice it coming on, thinking that is somehow normal, something about getting older, about turning eight or turning twelve or turning fifteen, and then one day you realize that your entire life is just awful, not worth living, a horror and a black dot on the white terrain of human existence.”
Wurtzel writes like an angsty high school girl — sometimes poetic and insightful, but also with a self-absorbed arrogance. It’s hard to feel sorry for her when she describes sleeping with her friend’s boyfriend, standing up her own birthday party, missing her grandparents visit to her college, or embellishing stories to her colleagues at the Dallas Morning News. Rather than take advantage of her immense opportunities, Wurtzel runs from her problems — going to London to stay with a stranger who only puts up with her as a favor to his ex-girlfriend.
“I can’t stand listening to you,” a former book critic for New York Magazine tells her. “When I was your age, I saved up money, I waitressed for months so I could take myself over to Europe…. But all you seem to be able to do is complain that you miss your ex-boyfriend and you can’t plug anything in! This is ridiculous!”
But as ridiculous as Wurtzel’s stories are, Wurtzel’s morose and self-absorbed account shouldn’t be dismissed. Depression is still a dark and insidious disease that could strike anyone. More middle-aged white people are dying from overdoses, addictions and depression, The New York Times reported earlier this month. Meanwhile, we’ve heard of the string of suicides at high schools and colleges.
Wurtzel blames her depression for most of her ridiculous behavior — the reason she cried for no reason or self-medicated with prescription drugs, hard liquor, pot, cocaine, Ecstasy and boys. Depression, not drugs, is her problem, she says: “I was loading myself with whatever available medication I could find, doing whatever I could to get my head to shut off for a while.” But unfortunately, depression doesn’t have a quick fix.
Although Wurtzel chronicles her childhood and college years, she still battles depression with a psychiatrist-approved drug cocktail. Prozac may be her shield, but any shield can crack.