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.
From the onset of puberty until I was 40, I suffered from crippling depression--to the point where I just wanted to commit suicide because I could not stand the pain anymore. I never sought treatment for it. My mother had suffered what was then called a nervous breakdown, and I saw how the people who knew about it had a tendency to behave around her. To this day, I don't know how I survived, but I did. I don't talk about this very much, but I will because sometimes it's enough in that moment to know that you're not alone. To cut to the chase: I've had the same relationship with books as you. Books are saviors.
ReplyDeleteThank you Cathy. It is good to know that I am not alone in this. I do realize that many people suffer from many illnesses and diseases but somehow I feel that the mental ones make you feel more alienated, more alone than any other.
ReplyDeleteI am glad to hear that also you share the feeling on reading with me.
Thanks.
I'm manic, so I really, really, really understand. Unfortunately, that's only one of my problems. So I get "When the outside world was too much, I read."
ReplyDeleteIt's nice to see others express themselves openly. It took many years before I was able to.
You go! :-D
I am just beginning to do that. I have been somewhat of a seeker, i guess you could say. People like us I think deep down are strong and refuse to acknowledge that there is no reprieve. Anyway, I am getting to be more of an open person now. :-)
ReplyDeleteLilly, I really appreciate it. It helps to know that I am not the only one. :)
ReplyDeleteIt certainly does. I have recently heard a good friend of mine and a wise person say : "People who judge don't matter. People who matter never judge." I think it helped me with being more open about my issues, since being judged by others had always been my biggest fear.
ReplyDeleteYes, books are wonderful friends, aren't they? I'm so glad they've been there for you.
ReplyDeleteThank you. I am glad I wrote the post because now I know that they are there for many other people as well. It makes me feel good.
ReplyDeleteIt wasn't till I got access to the internet and found that I wasn't alone that I became more open about my experience. Even then I didn't just jump in and blabber away. When I did finally mention it, I'd have people tell me, "I wouldn't have a clue if you hadn't told me!" What can I say? People who've suffered through what is a living hell can be award-winning actors when they need or want to be. Even my own mother didn't have a clue what I was going through.
ReplyDelete"People who've suffered through what is a living hell can be award-winning actors when they need or want to be."
ReplyDeleteI think that this acting of ours and the realization that because of the stigma attached to mental illnesses we need to be constantly vigilant is part of our despair. That constant internal struggle between having to pretend and not having enough strength any more to go one pretending.