The Mara Dyer trilogy remains one of the best fictional depictions of PTSD that I have come across. That just makes it more disappointing when the series badly misses the mark on other issues.
In no way is Briony’s depression the whole point of this novel—however, it is an important piece, and it is portrayed excellently. Chime was one of the most cathartic reading experiences of my life.
Although it lacks detail in its portrayal of spina bifida, this is a well-written, cute series featuring a very cool character with the condition.
Jacobus nailed the struggle with addiction, she nailed physical limitations, she nailed alcoholic and disability-related depression, she nailed the chaos of the active alcoholic, and she nailed the hopelessness and despair that can come from all of it.
Your Voice is All I Hear will familiarize readers with common symptoms, while normalizing schizophrenia as an illness like any other; however, it is obvious that this book’s target audience is not those with schizophrenia themselves.
Despite good ideas and wonderful writing, Brilliant falls flat when it comes to having any constructive meaning regarding depression.
Everything, Everything starts out as a respectful, sensitive narrative with incredibly likable characters, but ends on a shockingly disappointing note in terms of disability representation.
Although several elements of Red’s autism are portrayed well and I’m eager to read the sequels, the character is often relegated to muttering statistics and nervously stimming in the background.
Although I was underwhelmed by the portrayal of albinism in Akata Witch, it’s a great novel that features the first strong, sympathetic lead with albinism I’ve seen in quite a few years.
Paperboy is only one character’s experience of stuttering, but it’s an honest one. And in a world where so often these stories aren’t told, that comes across like a breath of fresh air.
Despite their proclamations to the contrary—“don’t tell me you’re one of those people who becomes their disease”—the characters are shown to have nothing in their lives that isn’t about their cancer.
A nuanced, natural depiction of disability, realistic in both its physical presentation and the character’s emotional reactions.
The Islands at the End of the World excels on many levels—but from a purely disability perspective, it fall short of its mark.
This is a fast-paced, easy read that would appeal to crime lovers of any age. However, I had a hard time reading this story, primarily because Penelope’s ITP is exaggerated and sensationalized.
Despite noticing some minor inaccuracies and overlooked details, I’m very impressed with the effort the author put into creating an accurate portrayal of the autoimmune condition ITP.
I highly recommend Rage for anyone with depression, who wants to learn about depression, or anyone who just enjoys a good story. It’s moving, it’s clever, and despite its fantasy elements it’s incredibly realistic.
Hunger sings with authenticity. Lisabeth’s anorexia is visceral, bordering on uncomfortable, exactly as it should.
Some people call OCD a doubting disease. Corey Ann Haydu infuses her story with the back-and-forth, pulsing presence of this doubt, resulting in a first-person, insider’s account of what the condition feels like for many.
I Was Here is full of wasted potential; Meg is as much of a prop to the story as Mr. Body is to Clue.
This book moves on the back of plot: a girl who didn’t want to survive in the regular world is one of a few survivors of the zombie apocalypse, trapped with classmates in their school. But the warped perspective that Sloane’s depression gives to her situation is what makes this book special.
Stranger represents a case where verisimilitude—the appearance of plausibility—succeeds where a more realistic representation of disability might have failed.
“I learned absolutely nothing from Rachel’s leukemia,” this book’s protagonist starts off in its in-universe foreword, and I grinned and said, “YES! This is going to be good.”
Although Kurt’s character seems to largely exist to serve the central romance, I was pleasantly surprised by how many pitfalls Perkins avoided in a wonderfully understated manner. Various assumptions and tropes were casually turned over with a single line here or there.
It’s a rare occurrence when an author can update an already published book, and even more rare when that update includes a huge overhaul of the portrayal of an autistic character. Alyssa Hillary takes a look at both the original and updated version in this review.
The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee is a fun, well-written book, if an imperfect autism read.