This was a really difficult read for me, mostly because of the subject matter. The other did an excellent job conveying how it feels to be living in an abusive relationship: the visceral lack of safety, the walking on eggshells, the losing touch with what's real about your own self. This is a prime example of why memoirs as a genre fascinate me: I can't imagine how brave a person must be to write about these experiences so candidly. 

The narrative isn't quite linear, just like both the recovery from this sort of trauma and the trajectories of  getting into this sort of situations are never quite linear. The whole book reads almost as a collection of essays or journal entries, but they do form a complete story of a terrible, awful, no good relationship. There are a lot of metaphors and similes here, and the prose is flowery and lush; in some ways, all of that provides a kind of barrier between what's being described and the reader, but in other ways, it makes the subject matter hit harder.  

I don't expect to ever re-read this book, because getting exposed to some things once is perfectly enough, but I believe it will live rent-free in my head for a while. Especially the part about fantasizing about death because you forget just leaving is possible. Or the cockroaches in the clock. Or that poor snail. Or the phone that call that wasn't, after all, a break-up. Or, or, or.

And I've also written out a number of quotes, because damn, the prose here is so unfairly beautiful, with those perfectly placed words, and the rhythm, and the alliterations. I wish I was capable of crafting sentences like that.