This is, without a doubt, the best book I’ve read all year. Nestled perfectly within my favorite genre—“books about mentally unstable, unlikable women”—it’s a small genre, but it exists. Sorrow and Bliss is one of those books that depressed me from the sheer fact that I will never be this good of a writer. The writing is like an exposed nerve—raw, poignant, and laced with humor in all the right places. Meg Mason masterfully captures the experience of living with an unnamed “thing” that feels like it's lurking beneath your skin, controlling your mind like Plankton in that one *SpongeBob* episode.

The main character, Martha, is so vividly portrayed that the novel almost reads like an actual memoir rather than fiction. Mason brings to light the power of a label—the liberating sensation of naming the thing that has tormented you for years—yet she never actually names Martha’s illness. This approach highlights the complexity of mental illness, with its overlapping symptoms and the endless quest for the right diagnosis, the right treatment, the elusive sense of being "set straight."

I've come across some negative reviews of this book, mostly centered around Martha’s unlikability. I get it—she is a genuinely unlikable character/person. But I think that’s the point. Martha is a testament to the depths that mental health struggles can drag you to. "Being mentally ill doesn’t mean you get to be a bad person," people say. And they’re right. But it also doesn’t mean that you won’t be a bad person at times. When you’re so consumed by self-destruction that you hurt others and yourself without a second thought, you feel the need to punish and be punished. This is where the brilliant line from Martha’s mother comes into play—drawing the line between being a victim and being accountable for your own life. At some point, you have to pull yourself together and realize that things aren’t happening *to* you; they’re happening *for* you, as Mason so aptly puts it.

Martha’s journey is a powerful testament to the struggle of being controlled by your own mind, that helpless feeling of drowning. Despite the unwavering love and support she receives from her family and husband, she ultimately has to be the one to pull herself out of the darkness. She has to want to live, both literally and figuratively.

I could talk about this book for hours. The writing is genuinely funny at times, and Ingrid’s character might just be my favorite. Mason adds little details throughout the book that were so perfect that I was actively thinking “how does she come up with this?” Everything about this book was a *chef’s kiss*—a solid 6/5 for me, and I’m so glad I read it. That said, this book isn’t for everyone. If you hated *Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine*, *My Year of Rest and Relaxation*, *The Guest*, or anything similar, then consider this your warning—*Sorrow and Bliss* might not be for you and I don’t want to hear it.