Review: Die, My Love by Ariana Harwicz (Spoiler-Free)

We ate dinner, all of us together again, and I can still remember the tired, backlit image of an average man who thinks he's exceptional. After that, he cleaned his dentures and went to bed. And this is a day lived? This is a human being living a day of his life?

A exercise in grief, a portrait of postpartum psychosis, and an existential temper tantrum all rendered in 150 pages of startling prose.

First, I must thank Sara for gifting me a gorgeous copy of this book (we've met twice and you discerned my taste flawlessly?? Rachel, carry on this message). Not only is this exactly the kind of book I read, covering the themes I'm currently most interested in, but the movie is coming out soon starring J-Law and Rob Patts. So now I'm ahead of the game, and if there's one thing I enjoy as much as reading, it's being overly-prepared.

Okay, now I must exit my happy state of gratitude in order to discuss this pit of rage (or pit of wanting to feel rage?) of a novel.

Since when did sitting down and having some water get rid of the desire to die?

I think in order to appreciate Die, My Love to the fullest extent, you have to have experienced a certain degree of mental illness. Have to be familiar with at least a few solid months of derealization. (My Bell Jar girlies, rise!!)

Alternatively, you could have a deep-set fear—an ever-growing terror—of waking up one day with a husband and kids, no network, and an utter loss of identity, simply because you didn't stop yourself from it. The husband part could be dealt with (though, why do people feel so tied to the idea of legally binding a romantic relationship? a question I continue to explore), but it's the kids part that's horrifying.

I've been slowly building my collection of motherhood literature (and film: If I Had Legs, I'd Kick You is A24's latest form of birth control, and 110% effective!), which all started with Ashley Audrain's iconic, The Push. First time I ever saw the thought voiced aloud that someone regretted being a mother. Then I tried to get my hands on every other work audacious enough to admit the same, and came across this passage from Sophie Gilbert's On Womanhood that now occupies a permanent space in my skull:

This was, for me, what becoming a mother was like. Who was I before? I couldn't remember. My identity, my desires, my instincts had all been subsumed by the urgency of the present, the heavy mental load of care. A year or so later, I read that the French have an expression for exactly this state of diminishment imposed by motherhood: 'femme fondue' or 'dissolving woman.'

Femme fondue. FEMME FONDUE?????? Bye. Never recovering from that. Legitimately think about it five times a day.

So, if I had to diagnose the protagonist of Die, My Love with any one particular affliction, it would be just that. Femme fondue. That poor, dissolving woman.

And what do you do if you wake up one day in that reality? What if when you step out of bed, you dissolve one drop at a time? That's enough to drive someone crazy. Enough to make you need to step right through the glass. Feel each and every shard pierce through skin and muscle and fat.

That's what Ariana Harwicz captures in this novel. A scream so ragged it rips your throat.