I was so startled to hear a description of trichotillomania (hair-pulling) as the opening to this story. It is a condition that almost never gets discussed in any kind of fiction I have encountered, and one that I have struggled with since early adolescence. Aside from any other aspect of the story, I found myself suddenly, desperately hoping for a happy ending, even while knowing the kind of fate Mrs. Rochester was certainly headed towards. This was a little distracting, but that's something that would only bother me, I guess.
The story certainly packs its punch well. I loved the historical details, the reality of Bertha's situation as a mentally-ill woman, as a sexualized minority in the white, alien landscape of England. They all make this a rich and biting tale. This kind of tale - where the author gives a voice to the voiceless, oppressed, tragic background characters of a well-known story - is an important reaction to the stories that we consider to be classics. It's an exercise in perspective that never seems to run dry as a genre.
I still found myself hoping for some sort of redemption or break in the tragic inevitability of Bertha's story. We all know the way her story ends, but why couldn't she escape or get revenge or run away with Jane just this once?
Solution: write my own madwoman-in-the-attic narrative.