What Inspired Ottessa Moshfegh To Write 'My Year Of Rest And Relaxation'?

For three years, she was just his transparent, obedient wife. He never knew that the girl who saved him from the raging ocean—and gave up her Olympic dream to marry him—was the very woman he just divorced.

Every April Fools' Day, my boyfriend joined his childhood friend in the same cruel prank, pretending to propose to me. Last year, I slipped the ring onto my finger, my heart full of hope. Suddenly, the mechanism snapped tight. Pain shot through my hand, and I cried out. He apologized afterward and promised that, this year, the proposal would be real. As such, I arrived carefully dressed, believing him. Instead, I was met with a face full of cake. He reached out gently, wiping the cream from my face as if it were nothing more than a harmless joke. However, this time, I took a step back. After six disappointments, I chose to walk away. So why was it that, in the end, he was the one consumed by regret?

"You're evil, Jake. I curse the day I met you, and the day I said yes to you. You're the biggest mistake of my existence," I muttered, my voice tight with pain and hatred. "I know. No explanation can atone for the pain I caused. I have nothing but words.... but please, Jessy. Let me speak. Let me tell you I'm sorry," He murmured, voice trembling with emotions. I refused to let him see my heart. I refused to give him any clue that he still had power over me. I exhaled sharply and masked my emotions behind a calm facade. Jessica Wilson thought marrying billionaire Jake Stone would save her dying mother but instead, it imprisoned her in a cold, controlled marriage she barely survived. Two years after escaping, Jessica returns to New York stronger, fearless, and determined to live for herself alone. But fate has other plans. The moment Jake discovers she's back, the one who once broke her becomes obsessed with getting her back, this time not out of obligation, but love. However, Jessica is no longer the naive 24years old girl he once controlled. Now, she's his greatest loss and his biggest challenge. And as enemies rise, secrets unfold, and past wounds reopen, and one question remains. Can a man who once destroyed her ever deserve her again?

My name used to be Misty Smith, but I killed her with the help of a family court judge in the city and became Sophia O’Shea. Okay, I became emancipated at sixteen because my parents were addicts, and the judge was nice enough to let me change my name because their addiction were slowly destroying my future. I bought my first car, got a single-wide trailer in a small town, sued a girl on my first day at my new school during my senior year, and became a billionaire genius before receiving my high school diploma. It's all thanks to my four grandparents leaving me everything before they bit the dust even though we've never met, and after becoming friends with the girl I sued on the first day of my senior year, I found out my high school crush, who moved back to Baton Rouge, Louisiana with his family after graduation, also had a crush on me. Only time will tell if it was meant to be or if it was just a phase. **WARNING: ADDICTION, DRUGS, VIOLENCE, PROFANITY, SEXUAL REFERENCES, AND OTHER ADULT CONTENT PRESENT! May not be suitable for readers under the age of 18! Please read at your own discretion!**

On the morning of my wedding, I found a saved voice message on Elliot Mercer's phone. It was only four seconds long, barely long enough to matter, yet the girl's voice filled the bridal suite as if she had stepped into the room herself. "I miss you, Elliot. I know I shouldn't." The makeup artist had just finished pinning the last pearl into my hair. My dress was zipped, my veil was hanging over the back of a chair, and downstairs, two hundred guests were waiting for me to marry the man I had loved for seven years. Elliot stood behind me in the mirror, already dressed in his black tuxedo. "She was drunk," he said. "It happened after the firm retreat. Someone dared her to send it." I checked their messages with shaking hands. Case notes. Coffee orders. Court schedules. Her apologies whenever she needed him again. His replies, patient and calm, as if being needed by her had become part of his day. There was nothing explicit. That almost made it worse. I couldn't point to one sentence and call it betrayal. I could only feel the space she had taken from me, quietly and steadily, while I was busy trusting him. My tears fell onto the lace of my dress. "Block her," I said. "Block Tessa now, and I'll still walk down that aisle." Elliot looked at me for a long moment. Then he took the phone from my hand. "After the ceremony, I'll have her moved off my cases," he said. "You have my word." Seven years together, and I still wanted his word to mean something. Then his phone rang. He looked down, and I saw Tessa's name before he turned the screen away. A second later, her text appeared. I'm outside. I can't breathe. Please don't make me do this alone. Elliot's face changed. I caught his wrist before he could reach the door. "If you leave this room," I said, my voice trembling, "don't come back expecting me to marry you." For one second, he looked like the choice hurt him. Then he peeled my fingers from his sleeve, one by one, and walked out of the bridal suite.

When my wife, Rosalie Wood, had her first meal after she regained consciousness, the attending doctor, Ethan Joeman, took my seat. He cut the steak while he pointed at her rosy face and looked at me with open defiance. “Do you know how medical miracles happen? It is not because of your constant presence. It is because of my in‑depth treatment.” My fingers that held the knife and fork turned pale. Ethan grew even more brazen. His feet rubbed against my wife's calves under the table. “A person in a vegetative state can still feel things. Every night after you left, I did awakening therapy for her. She said her body could not move, yet the sense of being conquered made her feel as though her soul left her body. She woke up because she wanted to feel it again. Last night, she said she wanted to thank her savior and asked me to check her firmness after recovery. She did not disappoint me.” I looked at Rosalie, who stared at the doctor with admiration, and my chest tightened. To pay for her treatment, I sold my house and car. I slept on a folding bed in this hospital for three years. I bathed her and turned her over every day. It turned out that my three years of round‑the‑clock care meant nothing compared to a few acts of harassment committed while she was vulnerable. I took a drug from my bag and smiled as I poured Ethan a glass of wine. I thought, ‘You went through a lot, yet her awakening was only a brief moment of clarity before death. She has super‑drug‑resistant syphilis. Congratulations. You caught it too.’