In praise of LSD

Ayelet Waldman is, surely, not the first writer to have scrolled through a list of ‘Books of the Year’ and become increasingly enraged to find her own book not on it. But where other authors manage to keep a dignified silence (sticking pins into critics’ byline photos in private), Waldman demonstrates a lively lack of self-control, and often reaches for her phone. In 2014 she fired off a volley of increasingly furious tweets when the New York Times omitted her novel Love and Treasure from its list of ‘Notable Books’. Her book was, she railed, ‘fucking great’. It felt ‘fucking demoralising’ to be excluded when her book had garnered ‘better reviews’ than many on the list.

As a fan of the Berkeley-based author’s taboo-busting writing about motherhood, my response is conflicted. I enjoy the savage wit and energy of her outbursts, knowing I’d be mortified if I behaved like that myself. Inevitably Waldman is mortified. She quickly deleted those tweets, but not before the gossip site Gawker had grabbed a screen shot and mocked her as a ‘famous emotion-haver’.

Despite holding down a responsible job as a lawyer for years and raising four children, she has suffered from a lifetime of ungovernable feelings, diagnosed first with bipolar disorder (like her father) and then with premenstrual dysphoric disorder (which allowed her to keep vague tabs on herself until the menopause kicked in). At 52, she worries that her volatility is damaging her family. Over the years she has tried all the usual talking therapies, sedatives, anti-depressants and hippy retreats, but nothing has really reined her in.

At her lowest she became addicted to Ambien, lost most of her memories of her youngest child, and tried to set up a replacement wife for her husband in the event of her death.