Loud in the House of Myself didn't click with me, didn't ring quite true. There's a focus on shock value here; the book is basically a laundry list of the most awful scenes from her life. Normally I wouldn't fault Pershall for that, considering the genre and the mental health issues involved, but she uses the book like a spotlight on her very worst moments, illuminating them in a way that seems like she's perversely proud of them, and uses only a couple pages at the end to skim over the recovery process. And by "process" I mean she gives a basic outline of drug and DBT therapy but little on her experience going through it, aside from complaining about side effects. She states she's only been recovering for the last couple years, which makes me think she's not recovered much at all. She's stabilized, and there's a difference. (It's the same vibe I got from Hornbacher's Wasted, and the crash and burn her life took after that proved she wasn't recovered nearly enough at that time to be writing a book based on her experiences.)In short, I think the focus of the book was skewed toward shock value and that the author may not be recovered to the point of being ready to write this. I wish Pershall had waited a few more years before sitting down at the computer. She's a good writer, and I think Loud in the House of Myself would've strongly benefited from additional brewing time. Pershall wasn't ready, so the book wasn't ready.
