This is the most embarrassing book that I have ever had the misfortune of reading.  The lack of self-awareness is so extreme that it seems willful, and the lack of meaningful interaction with privilege seems deceptive. What do I mean?

To the first point: Tendler seems to believe she is incapable of being in the wrong - she plays the victim in this book like it's a competitive sport and she is going for Olympic gold. Every boyfriend she's ever had, he's the problem. This is why she has concluded, without any sense of nuance, that men are the problem and women are not - to the point where she says stuff like "I don't think I could raise a male child." What? This is a strange conclusion given that the reoccurring antagonists of her life are her mother and her ex-therapist, both of whom are women. I commented on this to my friends about halfway through the book, so imagine my surprise when

she reveals at the end that her psychiatrist observed the same thing, and she directly refutes it by calling him a misogynist without a hint of irony. The people in her life clearly don't care about her to let her publish something that makes her look that stupid.

Her black-and-white view of gendered interactions suggests to me that she wouldn't know the meaning of intersectionality if it walked by her in the form of race, class, sexuality, or any other identity axis upon which she is privileged. Which brings me to the second point: Tendler clearly has money and white privilege - specifically the type that is typical for white women to flex, which explains this lack of interest in intersectionality (then she wouldn't be the victim anymore!). She rarely acknowledges her privileges; she says something about having money in passing when she discusses her dog's extensive medical bills. But it haunts the narrative like it's Laura fucking Palmer: she moves across the country multiple times, she renovates a Connecticut home she fills with vintage furniture, she specializes in Victorian lampshade making, she has a spare grand to replace expensive hormones when she fucks up one of the bottles (because she's mad that she didn't have a person to show her how to inject them!), and, of course, she can afford nearly two weeks of inpatient care.

I am empathetic to her problems - I, too, was raised as a girl and am still viewed by many as a woman; thus, I experience a lot of misogyny myself. I, too, have been suicidal and self-harmed, and I, too, have GAD and MDD. But goddamn. She needs a hefty dose of reality and perspective, especially if she's telling her own story in such an unlikeable way. 

I went into this book assuming I would feel sorry for her because, well, I was exposed to the same news cycle about her divorce that the rest of us were. But I left it with a deep sympathy for the comedian who must not be named.