In the introduction to this book, author Wendy Merrill states, "...this menmoir seeks to provide what we all need more of: a good laugh, an easy read, and hope." Unfortunately, what I mostly got out of this book was a very bad headache. While I can sympathize with a person who suffers from anorexia, bulimia, drug addiction, sex addiction, love addiction, alcoholism AND low self esteem, Wendy's story is just exhausting. Reading her book is like hanging out with a really annoying, completely self absorbed friend who never shuts up.
The worst part is the way she seems to think that all her complaining is witty and funny and fascinating. This cleverness is the book's biggest turn off for me; after one or two chapters, it's just too much. The worst offenses:
- the frequent use of made up words like "men-o-pause", "manorexia", "memento", "co-demendency" - you get the idea!
- the conversations between "big Wendy" vs. "little Wendy"
- repeatedly referring to her status as firstborn child as the "experimental model", including the bizarre "Case Study" baby announcement written by her intellectual parents.
And the men the author falls head over heels for?!! I've gone for the wrong guy myself a few times, but it's almost unbelievable that one woman could have so many disastrous relationships. And yet, just when you think you've hit rock bottom and you're ready to toss Falling Into Manholes into your trash bin, there's a genuinely moving chapter about Wendy's mother's death and some thoughtful observations about the film Breakfast at Tiffany's.
If you are brave enough to pick up this book, I'd recommend skipping over all the "poor me" b.s., going right to the back of the book and the author's long, long, LONG awaited realization that before she can expect someone else to love her, she has to love herself.
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