How Does 'Drowning Ruth' Explore Mental Illness?

'Drowning Ruth' delves into mental illness with a haunting subtlety, weaving it into the fabric of its characters' lives. Ruth’s aunt, Mathilda, carries the weight of unresolved trauma, her fragmented memories and erratic behavior hinting at deep psychological scars. The novel doesn’t shout her condition; it whispers it through her avoidance of water, her sleepless nights, and her compulsive need to control Ruth’s life. Mathilda’s illness is a shadow, always present but never fully named, mirroring how mental health struggles often lurk beneath the surface in real life.

The story also explores generational trauma. Ruth inherits Mathilda’s anxieties, her own fears manifesting in nightmares and a distrust of the lake—a symbol of the family’s unspoken pain. The narrative’s nonlinear structure reflects the disorientation of mental illness, jumping between past and present like a mind grappling with memories it can’t reconcile. The lake itself becomes a metaphor for suppression; what’s buried doesn’t disappear—it resurfaces, just as trauma does. The book’s strength lies in its refusal to simplify mental illness, portraying it as messy, inherited, and inextricable from love and loss.

Mental illness in 'Drowning Ruth' isn’t a plot device—it’s the air the characters breathe. Mathilda’s paranoia and Ruth’s repressed memories paint a portrait of how trauma distorts perception. Mathilda sees threats where none exist, her protectiveness crossing into obsession. Ruth, meanwhile, blanks out key moments, her mind shielding her from truths too painful to face. The lake isn’t just water; it’s the subconscious, hiding secrets that both terrify and compel them.

The novel’s rural setting amplifies their isolation. Without therapists or diagnoses, their struggles go unnamed, festering in silence. Mathilda’s sister’s death haunts them like a ghost, its unresolved nature fueling Mathilda’s instability. The book captures how mental illness can be a family legacy, passed down through glances and unspoken rules. It’s a quiet, devastating look at how people cope when there’s no language for their pain.

'Drowning Ruth' treats mental illness as a puzzle missing half its pieces. Mathilda’s actions—hoarding, lying, clutching Ruth too tight—read like cries for help in a world that doesn’t listen. The story avoids labels, showing her as a product of her time: a woman whose grief calcifies into something darker. Ruth’s fragmented childhood memories mirror this, her mind editing trauma like a flawed camera lens.

The lake’s dual role as both danger and refuge mirrors mental illness’s contradictions. Mathilda fears it yet can’t leave; Ruth is drawn to it despite its threats. Their relationship to water mirrors their inner turmoil—sometimes calm, sometimes consuming. The novel’s brilliance is in how it makes mental illness feel atmospheric, as much a part of the setting as the Wisconsin cold.

The book explores mental illness through silence and symbolism. Mathilda’s rigid routines and Ruth’s nightmares show how trauma lingers. Mathilda isn’t 'crazy'—she’s a woman shattered by loss, her mind a locked room. Ruth inherits her fears, suggesting mental illness as an heirloom. The lake, ever-present, embodies what they can’t articulate: fear, guilt, and the pull of the past. It’s a masterclass in showing, not telling, how pain shapes a family.