I have always loved reading and books. I make a distinction here as it is possible to just own books without having read them yet and just look at them and give a sigh of pleasure and content that they are yours, feel a stirring in your heart at the thought of so many secret worlds waiting to be journeyed through, so many beautiful stories to live through and the abundance of words, beautiful, tricky, sometimes tongue twisting words to learn, rediscover their meanings and just enjoy them.
My love for books is unconditional, non-discriminatory, I love them one and all. And then I read them and I realize that they love me back. They give back the love I have for them. How is it possible? Well, reading is my therapy. And I do not use this word lightly. In my short to medium length life, I have gone through many therapies, I have suffered many bouts of two crippling mental illnesses (one is depression, the other I will not mention for there is still too much stigma attached to it in my opinion) and I know I will suffer many more. I know today that reading has gotten me through all of that. When nothing else worked I would read. When the outside world was too much, I read. When I thought I would go irreparably insane I escaped into reading. Books gave me, over and over again, what the real world couldn’t give, books were to me what the real people couldn’t be. And then what a blessing! After having suffered destructive episodes, I would go back to the normal world and discover that I could read books for the sheer pleasure of it.
Yes, books and reading were and will still be my saviors. I owe much to them, they owe me nothing and yet they still keep giving.