Dorothy’s complete honesty shows remarkable bravery as she describes the life of her intelligent and amazing daughter, raising painful questions along the way: Did we miss vital clues of what was to come? Could we have done something to help? The answers to these remain open. Bipolar disorder is devastating illness and though it can be ‘treated’ to a certain extent, it cannot be cured making tragedies such as these even harder to grasp.

It is a dreadfully sad story, but reading it DID bring Zoë to life for me. Despite the horrific events that she went through, I also found out what a vast and exciting life she experienced and the positive effect she had on so many people in spite of her illness. I recommend it to all.

I must confess I anticipated a grief-fest – yet another “yiddishe momma” flagellating herself over a family catastrophe. I have to say I saw instead a crucifixion victim – discovering that there is no comfy position to adopt: one can only shift one’s weight from one point of agony to another. Thank God there are no public executions any more. To anyone contemplating suicide (as I have done) I know of no more compelling documentation of the dreadful effects it would have on those around me – even if I precede my act by smashing up the residual love others might still bear for me. To know this deters me powerfully from doing either. It makes it clear to me that the effect of suicide goes far beyond your immediate family. It appals your friends, your neighbours, your most distant acquaintances… it even appals your enemies.

Why do we expose our wounds and those of others, even our nearest and dearest, to the public gaze? The writer hints at her children posing her that question. What valid social reasons can there be for documenting such personal and intimate pain to an extent that many would consider “obscenity”?

Well, for two reasons, I think:

(a) To give heart to those in comparable pain,
(b) To expose the disgraceful situation in which such “obscenity” as happened to Zoë can take place.

I mean our unkind, squalid, scornful provisions for mental care. Ones to shame a third world country, even the poorest. The writer describes an asylum in Marrakesh, to which Zoë had had to be taken by the “sapeurs-pompiers” – I must say it sounds better than some I’ve been in. I speak from knowledge: though never a “service user” myself, in my time I have been a mental nurse. I have also shepherded a spouse through not one but two episodes of deep depression. I cannot honestly say I did any of these things “well”.

If this book saves just two people from destroying themselves and those around them (it has already saved one!) then it will have done its job. A monumentally good job too: the writer gives us a magnificent memorial to her daughter Zoë. But I hope, and expect, that it will go on to achieve far, far more than that.