Some people like to say that everything happens for a reason, but when it comes to suicide attempts, that line of thinking suggests some lives are more valuable than others. That some people are more deserving of life than others. But there is no “reason” to mental illness and suicide. Life, death and the trappings that come in between are not doled out based on who deserves what.
Today January 23rd, marks the one year anniversary of my very first post, called Mommy Marching with PTSD, which was all about how and why I overcame my post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms to bring my elder daughter to Womxn’s March on Seattle. Read it if you haven’t yet–it’s quite raw and ranty and fun.
I wish I could commemorate the first year with a post about attending the anniversary protest, which had been the plan, but as it happens Monday was my mother’s birthday, and Saturday–when the march took place this year–was when she decided to have a birthday ge-ttogether. Which turned into a birthday linner, or dunch, or something. In any case. I didn’t go (to the protest, I did see my mom for her birthday). But I saw photos of the turnout, and many pussy hats as I met my mom for her birthday celebration so I’m glad people are still fighting. And I do pledge to keep up the good fight via articles like this and like this and blog posts like this scripts and fictions you haven’t yet read but will someday (dear magical agent just waiting for me, please materialize and also materialize me some money). And maybe a march or two as well.
Even if you’ve never read American Gods by Neil Gaiman, you have probably at least heard the title. Maybe you’ve seen the new hit show on Starz. I haven’t, because I don’t have cable, and even while I was visiting my in-laws who do have cable, I didn’t get to see it because their package didn’t include Starz. Ah, well.
Though I haven’t seen the show, and though I do believe the hype and greatly look forward to it becoming available via my local library or Netflix, I know, without watching a minute of it, that it does not compare to the book. I know this because the novel American Gods by Neil Gaiman, who may be a god himself, is the greatest book ever written.
If that sounds extreme to you, then you’ve definitely never read it. Look, OK, everyone has their favorites. For a long time, my favorite book was 100 Years Of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. For an even longer time, I couldn’t pick a favorite book because there are just so many amazing books in this world. I still adore 100 Years Of Solitude, and I still believe there are countless worthy books on this planet. But I have also crowned American Gods as the best. At least in my literary pantheon.