A good memoir should do at least one of two simple things: make me laugh or cry. A really good one may be able to do both. I would still consider recommending a memoir that does neither of these if it is an interesting story with good analysis. Unfortunately, Friedman’s book is disappointing on all counts.
I picked up this book on a whim when I saw it in the new arrivals section of my local used book store. I have been thinking a lot about my own diet and exercise recently (and always have historically) and the idea of exercise addiction was intriguing. Certainly the story of someone that has struggled with exercise bulimia – a compulsion to purge calories through excessive exercise – is a solid premise for a useful and engrossing story.
I got off to a bad start with the book when I saw that it wasn’t really a diary (or even a reconstructed diary), while it did use a diary format. Entries ranged from ½ page to a few pages and covered anywhere from a day to a months time. But, even some of the entries marked with a single day were written about a longer time period. Most of the entries are written in the past tense with a reflective tone. Mixed in were what appeared to be entries from Friedman’s actual diary that are printed in computer generated script. The inconsistent style and time jumps lends to a disjointed voice and disconnected this reader. With better editing, the book may have been a much better read.
Immediately after I finished, I picked up Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress, a memoir by Susan Jane Gilman to reread it. I immediately began cracking up, although the substance of Susan Jane Gilman’s life is really thin. She just knows how to write about it with such flourishes that make the absolute most of it. I often feel as if I am right there, relating what she experienced as a child or seeing her through her teacher’s or parent’s eyes. It is this that Friedman lacks. I often didn’t feel present and was instead bored, although not too bored to keep reading.
I impressed by the bravery which Friedman bears herself. She shows a lot of ugly parts of herself in order to tell her story, including rage, vanity and shame. It is these moments that kept me going through the logistical details of her life. Occasionally, you can relate to her feelings, but mostly you are plodding through the motions of her routines and her life changes over the course of 6 years.
Some of these routines are the substance of her eating disorder and some are only tangential. These routines seem to have a significance that Friedman implies, but doesn’t really drive home. For example, she speaks many times of eating ice cream and frozen yogurt. I never really figure out what she is trying to say. Is she guilty for eating unhealthily? Does she use it to rationalize exercise later? Does she feel free of her disorder enough to indulge? Also, she talks about her hair a number of times and it is not clear if she is actually this vain or if she is intentionally pointing out the sort of vanity that leads to eating disorders.
Ironically, I most liked Friedman’s voice in the Epilogue. Here, she discusses the nuts and bolts of her actual recovery, which she gives nods to throughout the book, but doesn’t previously deconstruct. She looks at her own emotional process and what she has learned about eating disorders and culture. I wish that her intelligent analysis had been able to permeate the rest of the book instead of countless details that we are never able to make sense of.
