Forney does try her best to find the silver-lining in certain moments (see the above picture), but you can tell it’s a defense mechanism more than anything. The blurbs, which I should know to ignore by now, play up, among other things, Forney’s ability to find humor in her dire situation, but in hindsight they read as an attempt by the writers of said blurbs to trick people into reading a much more raw and serious look into living with bipolar disorder.
Forney herself tries to hold onto that misconception to sugar coat things, but she quickly realizes that membership card she imagines getting is more a crushing weight on her head and chest than a muse. As I believe I’ve discussed in past reviews, real mental illness is the furthest thing from glamorous. Yet when graded based upon other factors, namely my personal enjoyment, it rates a bit lower. So, graded as insight into the mind of a woman saddled with bipolar disorder, Marbles receives the highest mark I can give. Ellen Forney puts her entire self, unfiltered, into Marbles. Please excuse the cliche sentiment, but reading it brings you as close to understanding her hurricane of thoughts as you can get without actually being her.
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