This was an uneven read. The parts of her story dealing with her mother's personality were really interesting, but so much of it was clouded with Sholl's really rather grating, whiney voice and privileged lifestyle that she seems to take for granted, it was hard to maintain sympathy for her. I guess I'd have preferred a biography/case study of her mother rather than a memoir of the author. And I don't mean to demean Sholl's experience -- her childhood was not easy, but Sholl spends more time carping about her adult experience than examining her rough childhood, probing the results more than the cause, and to me, this seems less helpful. Scabies are hard to get rid of. Got it. But I want to come away from this book with a deeper understanding of why the scabies are there in the first place. I'm actually terrified to consider that my bibliophile tendencies may actually be a genetically inherited mental illness related to, or leading to, some serious hoarding issues. Someday someone's going to find my old, dead body in amongst the floor-to-ceiling stacks of books I intend to read. The more mainstream ereaders become, the more abandoned paperbacks available to build my tomb. I keep a stack of books in my car, just in case I'm ever stranded on the road I'll have a good few weeks worth of reading material -- if I don't starve to death. Really, my obsession is absurd. But knowing it's crazy is half the battle, right?