"I'm alive"

Below is the succinct yet powerful story of Kimya Dawson, a musician and singer with The Moldy Peaches as well as solo efforts who battled substance abuse and mental illness. She told her story after news spread of Amy Winehouse's death, and did so through a series of tweets, which are all the more beautiful in their brevity and simplicity.

Slaying Gods

Last night I had the pleasure of meeting a man I've respected for many years, a man whom I've often thought of as a literary hero, as someone who has become greater than I might ever be. And yet, the moment he walked out on stage to greet the raptured and boisterous audience to discuss his epic work American Gods,* Neil Gaiman set up the downfall of his own godhood.

That sounds rather bizarre, I know, but give me a moment to explain.**

At one point during the evening, Neil told the story of how he'd created a goddess. She'd been lifted from the pages of his work and given life in the real world. While similar to two goddesses from Russian mythology, he'd added a third to American Gods because the story needed another. Since that time, many in the world have come to accept and verify this goddess, as if Neil had just referenced a deity from traditional stories. Wikipedia now cites this goddess as real, without mention of American Gods or Neil, her creator. In essence, he created a god.

We've done the same thing, but with real people, turning them into the gods of our own imagining. We have created our own mythology of fame, and we don't even realize what we've done.

We live in a world filled with movie stars and singers, writers and athletes. It is a world in which the internet facilitates our hero-worship. We are sometimes able to touch these Gods Among Men, even if only for a brief second. And so we've created the cult of celebrity, and we have a gigantic pantheon of gods we worship.

I've often derided this worldly religion of celebrity worship while secretly participating in it like everyone else. But as I experience more in life, as I meet these otherworldly creatures I admire to the point of adoration, I'm realizing they are not gods. They are men who may be great, but they are still very much human.

So last night as I sat in the audience, a man I've practically hero-worshipped for years walked onto the stage. Someone at the top of the literary world, a person who befriends others in the Olympus of celebrity and so doesn't need to fraternize with the unclean masses. Intellectually I knew different, but I still believed it.

Then two years and a half years ago, still very new to Twitter, I stumbled upon @neilhimself's feed. I eagerly followed and sent him an @reply expressing my delight. To my shock, a few minutes later I got an email saying that I was now being followed by none other than Neil Gaiman.

I can't remember exactly how I reacted, though skipping giddily around the room wouldn't be too far from how I felt. I knew that I was near to greatness, yet I feared saying or doing anything to alert Neil to the fact that he was probably following me by accident. Still, that little insignificant thing made me feel validated, like it had given me worth I wouldn't otherwise have. It was unconscious, yes, but it was there, and it influenced my interactions with him and others in this cult of celebrity.

Over the years I only sent him DMs on a few occasions, still fearful that I wasn't part of the celebrity club to which he belonged. Those times I did centered on a little bookstore I'd opened and which was in dire need of help. With 1.5 million followers, a simple RT from him could do more to bring needed attention to my little shop around the corner than anything I could do on my own.

And so the god reached down and helped me, even though it probably didn't mean much to him at the time. He was passing on a message, donating a signed book to an auction to help a bookstore, but the impact of those small actions made it possible for the store to struggle on a bit longer,*** and it gave me the chance to add more godliness to his character, at least in my eyes.

Then came last night, and he unknowingly slew the god in himself. I call it that, because for so long I've thought him more than a simple man. To see a man—albeit a humorous and charismatic one—joke around, discuss a book, talk about mistakes and challenges he's gone through . . . well, I realized that while he is great, he is not better than me. Not in the basic sense that I am human, that we both are.

I write this partly to explain to myself what I've been doing all these years, not just with him, but with so many other celebrities and geniuses who've become gods in my mind. While it may not seem bad to do so—we almost all do it—I never realized the inherent problem with such thoughts. When we turn men into gods, we are in danger of diminishing ourselves.

You see, humanity is flawed. We can be brilliant at times and downright stupid at others, but none of us possess the perfection required for godhood. To give that power of deity to a man implies that we are less than him, we are not worth as much as he is. And so we make ourselves mere humans, unworthy to touch their snot-riddled tissues. (Gross analogy, I know, but true.)

What I realized in that moment was that, though I am flawed in so many ways, so is he. He has more experience and has achieved a level of success I will most likely never know, but he is an equal in that he is human and I am human, as were the rest of the individuals in the building that night. Instead of being a subordinate, I'd become a peer.

And so I enjoyed the show, laughing at his and Patton Oswalt's rather hilarious jokes, smiling at the stories he shared, and generally having a good time. My hero had become human, and it made the experience all the more fun. You can't have a casual conversation with a god, can't laugh with them or joke about mistakes you've both made. But you can with another man. 

One great thing about social networking is the ability we have to slay these gods of our invention. We can see that these celebrities are just like us, with different lives but still very much human. We can interact with them and treat them like they are a friend. I've noticed a good share of comments from people on Twitter who noticed that I got a response from Neil or some other literary celeb. Much of the time, when an average someone gets a response or is retweeted by one of the celeb gods, you can see the flurry of "He actually responded to you! That's so cool!" comments flittering about the Twitterverse. At first it made me laugh, but thinking on it now, I can see just how much we've made these people into more than us. It makes me sad.

While he may no longer be a god, Neil Gaiman is still a man I respect and admire, and someone whose help I deeply appreciate. Last night I was able to give him a token of my thanks, though it had lost the edge of an offering it might have had earlier that day.

It's an advance reader copy of The Graveyard Book, which I've had for three years now and couldn't decide what to do with it. It is fairly worn from numerous readings by myself and others. It is one of my favorite books and as such had a special value to me. (I'm thinking this just added to the hero-worship that later developed.) Because of that I couldn't throw it away, nor was it in good enough condition that it would be valuable as a collectible. 

Then I realized I could turn it into a piece of altered book art. I've been long been fascinated with the concept, and so I finally had the impetus to try it out. I really like how it turned out, so I was happy that I could give it to Neil in person and thank him for those bits of help he gave me and my bookstore. I'm happy I was able to do that, because I'm a big believer in thanking men and women who offer me help, even if it seems small to them.****

And so I close this much-too-long post by saying I'm glad I went last night, not only for the entertainment or the chance to see someone I admire, but for the thought that struck me as Neil discussed the gods he'd created in American Gods: I much prefer respecting men to worshipping gods. That way, I retain my value while admiring theirs. I'm finally able to lay to rest the idea that I am inferior to anyone, whether a man or a god of my own creating.

*Disclaimer: I haven't yet had the pleasure to read American Gods, though it's something I will be fixing quite soon. So these thoughts are based on last night's discussion of the book and my thoughts in general.
**Erm, sorry. That was quite a few moments. I really need to work on brevity.
***The store has been gone for six months now.
****On that note, thanks, Cat, for helping me out last night. I'm glad you believed the Not-A-Pizza was also Not-A-Bomb.
General note: I use the masculine "man" as a gender neutral term. Don't hate me; it's the way our language works.

The festering wounds of childhood

I grew up in a place where kids made huts out of holes in the ground, old cardboard, and scrap wood cobbled together with (most likely) rusty nails. It was a world where we played on hollow cement tubes, swung on monkey bars, and clambered over playgrounds rife with splinters.

I also lived in a world where evil wasn't pondered, heaven forbid discussed. Sexuality didn't exist, or at least wasn't recognized, except to serve as a warning for the dire things that could happen when it was even contemplated, let alone acted upon. Abuse didn't happen, because friends and family members would never do such things.

Within both those worlds there lived danger. In the land of tree houses and scraped knees, the possibility for death was there, yet so small that I laugh at the overprotection forced upon children now. Parents then understood that childhood meant bumps and breaks and bruises.

But in the 20 years since I was a kid, the world has become so child-proofed. Children are now legally required to sit in a car seat until they are 8 years old. Heck, I doubt I stayed in a car seat past the age of 2, and yet here I am, alive and kicking despite such reckless parental behavior.**

What parents didn't—and often still don't—understand is that the harm from emotional wounds are more devastating that the risk of a fatal injury from childhood play. Death is an ending, while spiritual* trauma is re-suffered every day over the course of a lifetime. But, of course, kids weren't given an outlet for their spiritual grief; instead they were told to tough it out and deal with it, though no instructions for how to do so were ever given.

The reality of emotional and spiritual injury is so much worse than a car accident or broken arm. This is real damage, the kind that festers deep down where not even X-rays or CAT scans can penetrate. It languishes entire lifetimes without anyone knowing it's there. Or maybe they know but refuse to admit that something could possibly be wrong.

And so, tragically, discussion of horrible, terrible, wicked things are avoided, because if we don't acknowledge them, they can't be real.

Sexual abuse doesn't happen in good families.
He isn't verbally abusing anyone; he just has a temper.
Addiction is only for those who use illicit drugs. Good people don't get addicted.
Families can sort of problems for themselves. Just ignore those niggling little things you see. It's none of our business.
Women who behave in any way but a chaste manner shouldn't have an expectation of respect or safety.
Children don't understand adult things.
It's all in your head, so just get over it.

While I am grateful for my (relatively) wholesome upbringing, life was never the Rockwell portrait people forced it to be. I know men and women who've suffered tremendous anguish yet refuse to seek help. If no one speaks about it, it can't possibly be true. Strangers—even friends and family—will never know their lives weren't perfect. Then the world will go on in sunshine and rainbows, and no one will ever have to deal with something so terrible, because things like that don't happen to good people.

Why mention any of this? What good is there in dredging up the past or discussing dark and painful things?

Because people are hurting.
Because the only way to heal a spiritual wound is to bring it into the light.
Because happiness is possible, even when it hurts so much right now to even think of living another day, let alone another 50 years.
Because silence is deadly.

Much has been said in the literary community about the recent argument that young adult books are too dark and corrosive for teens. I won't rehash or even address it here. I will say that life can be incredibly dark and difficult, but it can also be inexplicably good. Even after bad things happen, people can find happiness.

The world must acknowledge darkness and evil, then force it into the light where it can be banished and destroyed as best possible. The resulting wound can then be tended and healed, eventually scarring over to the point where the damage is a reminder but never an impediment. Not anymore. Not again.

Then one day long down the road, those scars can be shown to those still suffering in silent and unacknowledged pain, proving that injuries do happen, but they can also heal. Of that, I am proof.

*"Spiritual" is used in the sense of a person's spirit, without religious overtones.
**Yes, that is sarcasm.

My Twitter (and online) policy

I posted this on Twitter, but I think it's worth repeating here.

I generally avoid religion/politics online for good reason: people get passionate while discussing them, which can lead to cruel things being said.

Something you should know: I, my family, and many of my friends are Mormon. I don’t care if you disagree with my religion, but attacking me and my loved ones is not okay. I will unfollow and block anyone who does. It doesn’t mean I hate you; I just choose to not surround myself with negative, unkind people. Anyone who can’t treat me and mine with respect—or thinks we don't deserve basic courtesy—feel free to unfollow me. 

You don’t have to agree with someone to be courteous and respectful.

And now I return you back to your regularly scheduled programming.

If it's not about me, it's certainly not about you

It took me a few minutes to realize why an article in The New York Times struck me so wrong. The more I read, the greater grew my sense of uneasiness. Even from the title—It's Not About You—it began to strike a very raw and angry nerve. Go read it first. Then, if it sits ill with you and you aren't completely sure why, come back and I'll explain what's wrong with the inherent implications.

If you live your life with the primary goal of finding personal happiness, you are selfish and self-centered.

I've heard it for so many years that the thought of rebelling against this idea still strikes me as wrong, that I'm wrong to want to be happy. That, as the writers states, I should "be called by a problem, and the self is constructed gradually by [that] calling" and "court unhappiness."

That kind of thinking is so hurtful because it masquerades as the one and only truth. What exactly is this lie?

Everyone is the same and should want the same things and lead the same type of life.

If it's wrong to want happiness, then why am I alive?

It's taken me much too long to recognize the insidious nature of this force-fed philosophy, but now that I'm shaking off it's hold, I'm so much more at peace with myself and my place in the world.

For years I did what a good girl was supposed to do. I graduated from college, got a decent and ridiculously low-paying job. But it was a stable job, with sick time and benefits, and even a 401(k). The problem? I was stifled. I didn't realize it at the time, but no matter what I did in any of my post-college jobs, it was never enough to make me happy. That standard of life confined me in a way I didn't understand for years. My life wasn't bad or terrible, but when I tried to limit myself to others' ideals, I wasn't complete, and I certainly wasn't happy.

If the columnist is to be believed, "fulfillment is a byproduct of how people engage their tasks, and can’t be pursued directly. Most of us are egotistical and most are self-concerned most of the time, but it’s nonetheless true that life comes to a point only in those moments when the self dissolves into some task."

So I mean nothing in this universe, and the only meaning I will come by is through menial tasks?

To that I say BS. Life is not an assembly line, nor was it ever meant to be. I'm done letting people tell me it is and making me feel inferior because my life doesn't fit with their scripted plans. So here is my answer to all the leaders and official-sounding people who, like this columnist, espouse the all-encompassing view that "the purpose in life is not to find yourself. It’s to lose yourself."

Leave me alone, and take your one-size-fits-all ideology with you.

You don't know me, and you never will if you think I have the same thoughts and wants and needs as every other human on this planet. I'm not nearly so simple, and I'd appreciate it if you kept your insidious guilt away from me.

Edited to soften some of the rantiness. Must remember to calm down, re-read before posting an impassioned argument. 

Every woman should . . .

While looking through some old emails, I stumbled upon this little gem of a forwarded message. I generally hate getting them, but I loved the sentiment in this one, even years later. As with any chain message, I have no idea who the original author is or where it originated.


EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE one old love she can imagine going back to, and one who reminds her how far she has come.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE enough money within her control to move out and rent a place of her own even if she never wants to or needs to.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE something perfect to wear if the employer or date of her dreams wants to see her in an hour.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a youth she's content to leave behind.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a past juicy enough that she's looking forward to retelling it in her old age.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, and a black lace bra.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE one friend who always makes her laugh and one who lets her cry.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in her family.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE eight matching plates, goblets with stems, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD HAVE a feeling of control over her destiny.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to fall in love without losing herself.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to quit a job, break up with a lover, confront a friend without ruining the friendship—and how to change a tire.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW when to try harder and when to walk away.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW that she can't change the length of her calves, the width of her hips, or the nature of her parents.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW that her childhood may not have been perfect, but it's over.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW what she would and wouldn't do for love or more.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW how to live alone even if she doesn't like it.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW whom she can trust, whom she can't, and why she shouldn't take it personally.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW where to go, be it to her best friend's kitchen table or a charming inn in the woods, when her soul needs soothing.

EVERY WOMAN SHOULD KNOW what she can and can't accomplish in a day, a month, and a year.

The Rules

As I write this, I sit at the window of a high-speed train blazing past the French countryside. My time here is nearly done. Two months gone and I'm not sure what they mean yet. Some things aren't known for a long time. Others we ignore for far too long.

I used to think that to be successful, you have to live according to The Rules. These Rules can be anything as long as, according to your culture, this is How You Should Live. I tried so hard to have a happy, fulfilled life, but for some reason, I couldn't, at least not completely.

Then came a time when I realized I could actually abandon The Rules and be an even happier person. I'm not saying I abandoned my desire to succeed. Instead, I realized that what my society tells me is a good life is not what makes my life good.

Let me explain.

In the States, we are drilled with the importance of the College Education, Stable Career, Retirement Plan, Good Credit Score, Home Ownership, and the Nice Car. These are all hard and fast Rules for Good Middle Class Citizens. At least that's what we're trained to believe.

So I did that. I graduated from college, had a good (albeit low-paying) job, bought a dependable car, started my 401(k), and kept perfect credit. I should have been on the path to Success and Fulfillment. I wasn't. For whatever reason, my life felt missing.

People who Preach the Rules often mean well, trying to show a proven path to success and happiness. Meaning well is not the same as knowing better. For a long time, I thought it did. It's been so ingrained in me, this cultural Path to Happiness, that I feared deviating from it, that it would bring ruin if I did. Fortunately, though it felt very unfortunate at the time, something forced me off that path. I'm very glad it did.

As a child I dreamed of faraway places, of living as a world-traveler who doesn't need the stability of a Career with accompanying Retirement Plan to know that life is good. I dreamed of working hard at whatever I wanted and what suited me best in that moment. Those kinds of dreams are scary for most people. They imply Risk and The Unknown. People who believe in The Rules can be afraid of Failure, and thus, afraid to do anything to upset the balance that is central of The Rules. It's how it's done, after all. At least that how we're to believe it's supposed to be done. 

Please don't infer anything about my thoughts on people who live according to the Rules. For those who find happiness within the structure, I cheer for them. Truly. I have many family members and friends who prescribe to these Rules and lead wonderful lives that bring them just what they need. I'm not speaking to them today. They have found what brings them fulfillment.

Instead, I address those who have tried to live as society says but still can't seem to find what it is that completes them. If they're ready—and in a position to take some very big risks, because the life of the dreamer can be incredibly risky—then I invite them to listen some more.

My life was forced off the path of Stability due to severe illness. To this day, many family members and friends think it was "all in my head," that illness involving stress and its sometimes severe consequences is due to some deficiency. People live the Rules and find Happiness from them every day. Why couldn't I?

I tried to explain then what I didn't even know yet, but even now they still don't understand. For them, the path was easy: Follow The Rules and contentment will undoubtedly follow. But it didn't.

I broke with The Rules at that moment, though I didn't know or realize it at the time. I chose a difficult path that held a lot of uncertainty. Still plenty of stress, but a much different kind. This was pressure placed on me because of my own desires to succeed, not my attempts to live up to someone else's expectations. That's what I always did when I had a Stable Job. I don't function well with a boss because I never feel like I'm at liberty to do what I think best; I'm always shackled by their expectations. While many people thrive in that kind of culture, I languished.

After I started breaking the Rules, something in me changed. I found a renewed passion in my life, something that had been quietly imprisoned while I whittled away at outside expectations. The moment my will touched freedom, I couldn't go back. 

An unscripted life can be scary, but it can also be wild, exhilarating, and captivating. I'm ready to be captivated.