one of the best, most affecting, disturbing books I’ve read.
thoughts i scribbled in my notebook at night after staying up too late reading the Moshfegh because i couldn't stop:
"it's really telling that you never read the main character's name, but are reminded of the date constantly, so obviously there's a reason Moshfegh wants us to know the date. It all feels so slow, lethargic, but also constantly accelerating towards 9/11, and I'm wondering if that will change any of the direction of the main character, it's so fucked up it's funny it's like I'm actually looking forward to 9/11 in the book because then at least something might happen."

on a personal note:
"only you can get yourself off medication, I realize after having failed to find a psychiatrist covered by my insurance. "real" "psychosomatic" "feelings", (like heartbreak, loss, grief, etc.,) as Dr. Tuttle would call them, can only be "cured" (or addressed properly and managed, rather) by talking/thinking shit out! if you thought yourself into an anxiety hole, you gotta think yourself out, partially through talking it out with others. Maybe it's seeing her prescribed drugs I've been prescribed/tried for mental health purposes (Ativan, Seroquel, trazodone) that's scaring me into wanting to quit the Lexapro I take every day. But I think I can do it. it's been well over 2 years... seems enough.."

I often have these thoughts about this book as a pate/meat gelee; decadently prepared and written but gross, demanding attention