A very personal account of the harrowing effects of severe depression. Enlightening in so many ways, not least in how the psychiatric industry is often clueless when it comes to the chemical management of "resistant" depression (i.e. increasing the dose/changing the tablet/adding another pill). As other readers have noted, there is a distinct air of "priveledge" that echoes through the book - Sally's throw-away remarks about what therapists are wearing, for example. As one who also peaked too young (I was a succesful magazine editor at 28) I could resonate with much of this stuff, also the observations about distant father/ alienating childhood. But I couldn't help thinking - I would love to spend 2 years pottering around the garden/ taking up yoga etc - but mundane bills make this impossible for most of us. Yes I know Sally was discharged twice from hospital because the insurance ran out, but there is an overwhelming sense of infinite finance behind all of this - like there is a magical force behind all of this, in a sense, dare I say it of enabling the illness. When Sally feels better she goes out and chin-wags with similarly weathy people in swanky Knightsbridge establishments. When most of us feel better we take a walk down the street, and check our council tax bill in case the bailiffs are due. With depression an epidemic in these current economic times, I found the class issue jarring. Which was a shame, because I became engaged with her plight, and I know the illness knows no boundaries of class or money. So, that is why I say this is a highly personal account of depression, with episodes I suspect many will relate to. I know that I did.