One of the most relentlessly depressing books I have ever read; the merciless neurosis of it runs from page to page with no sign of it congealing to any sort of truly helpful conclusion. 'Depressing' is fine but...means to an end, surely?
This book may suit some but my guess is that it lacks what it takes to appeal or assist in any purposeful way. My suspicion too, is that the most 'useful' it can be is for some to acknowledge certain scenarios that they too found themselves in. But, just how useful is that with the book put down? Mildly titillating rather than 'useful' perhaps? This is one overdose of self indulgence which, perhaps, was the very problem from conception.
The final, exhausting - and, in retrospect, almost inevitable - chapter on the writer's religion and her discovery of that convenient virtual lover so many call their god and saviour was, for me, the last straw, frankly (and little wonder left as the last chapter). But there, writ large: the writer's redemption. So that's that, then. For me it was the final irritation. But, at least, the concluding 'ramble' among a plethora of rambling.
My view is that the growing embryo of this sorry tale and its ultimate birth at publication is likely to have helped - truly and very usefully helped - only one person; Natalie A. Young.