“My year of rest and relaxation” and the attraction of oblivion

In her column “Rage on the Page,” Melisa Guleruz ’27 reviews books about anger in women’s literature..

Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation walks a tightrope between satire, tragedy, and feminist critique, defying easy categorization. Is it a portrait of grief and trauma? A provocation of self-care culture or an exploration of deep female rage? The novel has all of this at once as it follows an unnamed protagonist who decides to sleep through her disappointment in life. “My Year of Rest and Relaxation” sneaks up on you, offering the charm of revealing a woman’s disgruntled exterior, but quickly revealing itself to be something more.

There is a lot in this novel – dark, funny, grotesque – but deep down there is a slow-burning anger.

The story is about an unnamed protagonist who has everything that society says should make a woman happy: beauty, wealth, education and freedom. And yet she is completely dead inside. Disillusioned with the world, she decides not to face her problems, but to get treatment in order to sleep them off – literally. “I thought that life would be more bearable if my brain was slower to judge the world around me,” the main character reflects. Here, Moshfegh brilliantly turns the book’s absurd premise into a disturbing commentary on the modern experience of women.

At the center of the novel is the protagonist’s rage, although it is never expressed in loud speeches or outbursts of violence. Moshfegh’s genius is her restraint. The rage is quiet but pervasive, a product of a world that commodifies beauty, treats mental health with casual disdain, and views women as decorative emotion-regulating machines. Moshfegh conveys the feelings of a woman so alienated from her own life that self-destruction seems the only answer: “Sleep seemed productive. Something got better in the dream. I knew it.”

The wit of the main character and the dark humor of the novel cannot be ignored. Her hibernation project is a parody of modern self-care culture. The protagonist’s extensive use of prescription drugs and sleeping pills, aided by the comically irresponsible Dr. Tuttle, acts as an exaggeration of the promises of the health industry. Instead of yoga and green juices, she reaches for Infermiterol and Neuroproxin, using these drugs not for healing, but for complete disappearance. In her words: “My intention was to lie as still as possible in my apartment for a year, feeding on the fat of my soul. I thought it would cleanse me, I would be reborn and come out renewed, with a clearer perspective.”

Her contempt for the world is not just passive; it becomes a weapon thanks to her sharp, cynical observations. “I was my own experiment,” she states. This desire to “correct” oneself through oblivion becomes a paradoxical form of rebellion against the very culture of female self-improvement. Why try to be better, happier or healthier when the world itself is irreparably broken?

What is particularly striking is that Moshfegh never offers a clear solution. The protagonist’s journey is not one of redemption or self-discovery; it is a year-long journey to a dead end with no clear answers. Even when she comes out of her dormant state, there is no sign that she is any more enlightened or healed. Moshfegh is not interested in clear conclusions, which is why the novel resonates so much. It reflects the weariness and futility that many women feel in a world that doesn’t seem to care whether they are awake or asleep.

This character is not meant to be liked – and that’s the point. She’s deliberately and deliciously obnoxious. While other novels might show us heroines struggling with self-doubt, seeking love, or trying to “find themselves,” Moshfegh’s protagonist dismisses all of this with derision. The main character is selfish, cruel and dismissive. “I didn’t need anyone,” she declares at the beginning. “I wanted to be alone without anyone bothering me.”

In a world that demands emotional labor, endless empathy, and the pursuit of perfection from women, the main character Moshfegh rebels through her utter apathy. “If you’re smart, or even just paying attention,” she says, “you realize that the whole world is a big, angry mess.” It is this detachment, this refusal to be pleasant, that makes her so charming to me. It’s not that she doesn’t care – she just stopped caring. She finished performing, tired of participating in the farce of everyday life.

The main character’s relationship with her best friend Reva is particularly violent and epitomizes Moshfeh’s exploration of cruelty and detachment. “Reva’s suffering was both pathetic and repulsive,” the protagonist remarks. Reva’s endless dieting, obsession with appearance, and desperate need for recognition are constant sources of ridicule for the protagonist.

“Her attempts at self-improvement were always tied to the way she looked,” the protagonist says witheringly. The protagonist rejects Reeva’s insecurities, which reflects her broader rejection of society’s expectations of women. The protagonist ridicules Reva for her obsession with thinness, describing her as “bloated with vice, dripping with sin and sadness.” This merciless judgment reflects the protagonist’s contempt for both Reeva’s vulnerability and the broader societal pressures women face to be thin, perfect, and constantly improving.

The protagonist’s cruelty towards Reva, especially when Reva is mourning the death of her mother, is amazingly callous. “I didn’t feel sorry for her,” says the main character at one point, without even trying to hide her contempt.

This novel is not for the faint of heart. Readers should be prepared for the fact that the main character is not only unpleasant, but also actively hostile to the world around her. Her path is not a path of self-knowledge or healing, but a complete withdrawal from life.

But that’s what makes My Year of Rest and Relaxation so memorable. Moshfegh taps into the raw vein of female rage and alienation, turning the protagonist’s intolerability into a form of protest. The character’s apathy, cruelty and refusal to care become acts of rebellion against a world that demands too much from women while offering too little in return. Her nastiness is the novel’s secret weapon, a tool that Moshfegh masterfully wields to bring out the rage and weariness that many women feel but rarely express.

Whether you find the protagonist’s insufferable character fascinating or disturbing, one thing is for sure: this novel is not designed to make you feel comfortable—it is designed to make you think. And this happens through an unpleasant, apathetic anti-hero. My Year of Rest and Relaxation is an artistic examination of female rage in all its muted, complex and chaotic forms. You may laugh, you may cringe, but above all, you will recognize the deep weariness at the heart of the novel. As Moshfegh deftly shows, sometimes the only way to cope is to opt out, even if it’s just a year of rest and relaxation.