Barbara Kent Lawrence’s “Bitter Ice: A Memoir of Love, Food and Obsession,” is more than a tell-all tale of dysfunctional family life. The purported theme of the book, which is Lawrence’s failed marriage to an apparently tyrannical anorexic, charges alongside the more detailed recounting of her own marred history of rejection, inadequacy and heartbreak. And it’s hard to say which story wins this lugubrious race.

Lawrence, a one-time Maine resident, gives a minute-to-minute account of her husband’s misbehavior, judges him harshly, and complains candidly about the havoc he wreaked on the world around him. At her best, she’d like others to learn from the experience, and for the small population of male anorexics to have the courage to enter the revolving door of self-help. At her worst, Lawrence draws a unforgiving portrait of an odious spouse. Not so far beneath the surface is a knifey narrator whose bloodletting never quite musters the heartfelt sympathy this tale desperately needs.

Lawrence spends half of the book revealing the many life events that made her unhappy previous to marriage. She devotes the other half of the book to explaining the many events that made her unhappy after the marriage. The point for many readers will simply be: Lawrence is unhappy. Or: She has a tin ear as a writer.

For those who love good bio-trash, this is a maddening approach to storytelling. It’s wearisome wallowing in Lawrence’s hurt feelings — all that drudged-up muck from childhood and mud slinging of adulthood. She longs for pedigree, which presumably would have given her some peace of mind and a better bank account. But she ends up grasping at nails — literally. Her only significant connection is ancestors who gave the nails to build Yale College.

As annoying as Lawrence’s own story gets, the real hair-raising information comes in the form of snobbery toward Mainers. Lawrence lived with her family on Mount Desert Island for several years during a romantic quest for meaning in quaint country life, out in the provinces, you might say.

Yet at nearly every turn, Lawrence writes with condescension or dismissal about her neighbors, her co-workers and public school kids, who don’t measure up alongside her own two children. She sets up a particularly contentious situation when she recounts teaching basic grammar to high school seniors. “I don’t get this,” one girl says anxiously after a worksheet on commas. “I’m from Bass Harbor and I don’t get this stuff.”

Because Lawrence loses credibility in scenes such as these, it’s hard to trust her on the larger issues of family life and marital dissension.

The big question is: Why would someone want to air her dirty laundry stained with such contempt for others?

The bigger question is: Why would a publishing company as stalwart as William Morrow and Co. want to print it?

And, of course, the biggest question of all: Why is “Bitter Ice” popular enough with local readers to keep it regularly off the shelf at a library on MDI?

If Lawrence had a political life or was a Hollywood icon or even a famous parent, or if the writing were outstanding, this type of personal expose could, at least, be voyeuristically intriguing.

But Lawrence doesn’t rise above the garden-variety malaise of entitlement. She indicts herself and then masquerades as wanting to help others by telling her story. Unfortunately, she never reaches into the realm of forgiveness or compassion.

Her former husband, who still lives in Maine, may well be eccentric. He may be mean, disgusting, rude and embarrassing. No matter what his story is, Lawrence transforms him into a grotesque. In doing so, she paradoxically makes him a sympathetic character, an underdog chomped on by fangs.

Finally, “Bitter Ice” is a thinly veiled retribution. By the end, you may find yourself screaming out that old adage: If you don’t have anything nice to say, then get a new therapist.