Perhaps because my family are how they are, it took me a little while to realisethat my quirks had gone beyond eccentricity and past the warm waters of weird to those cold, deep patches of sea where people lose their lives.
Indeed, coming from a family where whimsy and solipsism seem to be the name of the game, its perhaps little surprise that it takes a move from London to New York for writer Emma Forrest to shed the comforting insulation of charming eccentricity and begin to prod, prod, prod at the caged tiger of what is later diagnosed as rapid cycle bipolar disorder.
A prodigiously talented writer, Emma was working as a music journalist when still in her teens, and promptly progressed to novels and screenplays in the years that followed. Her life pre-medication, and no doubt post-medication, has been one of astonishing highs and the deepest, most flood-ravaged valleys, and this inclination towards extremes seethes off the page like the fog of the heat off the road on a summer day: there is a beauty here, but a dangerous one. Emmas way with words is siren-like, and reading this memoir, you feel as though any moment you might stray off course. She speaks of completing entire screenplays in a few days, fuelled by nothing but mania and caffeine, and its not hard to imagine that it is in a similar state that this memoir was written: it is feverish, exhausting, and at times as painful as hell.
New York, Emma tells us, has brought up what is latent inside her, like leeches being used to dredge up the humours lurking within a patient of old. And perhaps theres something to this analogy, for Forrest is no stranger to self-harm and self-loathing, tearing back and forth between glorious, glorious happiness to the deepest, most profound loneliness like an unstoppable pendulum. This is a razorblades-and-all memoir whose writing style is not so far removed from the way that Emma seems to lead her life; it gouges and slashes and weepsand then becomes at times utterly transcendent. It is not a comfortable ride.
The book initially blisters along the temporal divide, unsure whether to place itself in the past, the present or even the future, and it itself feels almost like it is on the brink of a mania. But then it suddenly takes focus: we learn that it has been inspired by the sudden and unexpected death of the psychiatrist Dr R, the man who treated Emma and many like her. The narrative, then, develops a purpose and force of reason beyond what initially seems to be an examination of the mirror of self, and reflects not only on Emmas zigzagging emotional journey leading up to and beyond Dr Rs untimely death, but also those of the other patients he treated.
In a way its an extended obituary, a tribute, as Emma examines the way in which Dr Rs quiet, mild approach has so changed her life. The fact that each chapter features, unfortunately not always successfully, an appended tribute from another patient of Dr Rs, is at once moving and yet almost disconcerting: there is a clear obsession here that recalls the sleepless day-after-day writing binges that plagued her before her first having met Dr R. And, of course, this makes sense in a way: Emma was not finished with her treatment when Dr R suddenly died. Moreover, he died without having told her that he was ill, and Emma is the kind of person who cant abide having things kept from her, or having such large changes occur in her life without her having some sort of say in it. Indeed, she speaks to Dr Rs widow about his having kept his illness from her, and is in a way placated to learn that Dr R, a life-long optimist, never believed that his lung cancer diagnosis would prove fatal.
Your Voice in My Head is a mix of memoir, tribute, and cathartic reflective analysis. It is gloriously messy, deeply moving, and more often than not utterly maddening, but at the end of it all you cant help but hope that Emma has reached, at least for a while, the calmness of equilibrium.
Rating: 
(excellent)
With thanks to Bloomsbury Australia for the review copy
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This has been on my bookshelf a while but I havent gotten to it yet, wary of memoirs. It seems it is worth the read though, thanks for sharing your review Stephanie
I tend to be wary of memoirs as well, but decided to pick this one up based on Forrests background (if she hadnt been a writer, I probably would have given it a miss). Dont let that awful cover scare you offthis is actually a very good read. :)