On average I’ve read only one-two books per year for close to a decade
And I am not proud of it. Here is my story
Few days ago in my eagerness to reclaim what was once one of my favourite things to do, I sent out a tweet. Shortly after, as is usually the case with twitter, some random smartass came at me with a sarcastic response. Our short exchange:
I meant it when I said I have my reasons for asking. The thing is that from around 2009, aside from academic text (books and articles), blogs and social media posts, I have probably read only one-two books per year.
I was raised on books. My parents encouraged my sisters and I to read, and from childhood I was a voracious reader. I read because I actually loved reading. It was an amazing feeling to curl up in some nook at home and read. There was nothing better than to read before bedtime and awaken with a book beside me on the bed.
Then anxiety slowly knocked on doors and windows. And in my mid-teens it broke down the door. In my early twenties it picked the house up and held it in the eye of the storm for years.
Silence is a complex concept for me to discuss. Or maybe I’m just over-complicating it for myself. Silence has stifled me when I’ve wanted to ask for help. It’s also scared me due to the fact somehow along the way I began to associate it with being alone.
Reading used to be a beautiful world of silence for me. Characters in books would come alive based on actors/actresses I would assign to play them in my head. The best kind of entertainment. Hours and hours building wonderlands. Completely at home, and feeling so safe.
Every new word I encountered got added to a list that I would enthusiastically look up in our trusted Oxford Dictionary. My vocabulary thrived. And I genuinely had fun.
Something switched off when I had my identity crisis in my early twenties.
I’ve come across one other person who has mentioned that in deep depression she was unable to read. I’m sure there are many more.
During my life my family and friends have lovingly accused me of always wanting to diagnose myself. This is true. My mind loves structure. In this context finding explanations for things occasionally helps me to separate the issue from my sober self. It gives me temporary relief. Paradoxically, this also negatively feeds my OCD rituals.
A theory has formed in my mind as to why I’ve struggled to read:
Studying had to be done to pass grades. Leisurely reading could be abandoned because I was no longer comfortable with the silence it would take to concentrate. Something that was once effortless became extremely weighty, and at the peak of it, just too heavy to bear. My mind was on overdrive, and I needed audible distractions. This ties in with me always craving to be surrounded by people during that time. Also, with me hating the alone time in my own mind just before I fell asleep (which was not always an easy thing due to my anxiety.)And so over the years the bedtime routine of reading was overtaken by the passive ritual of watching TV series.
So for the better part of a decade I have lost out on the literary scene. I have nodded and tried to convey familiarity in my eyes regarding the authors and books of the moment, when really I’ve had no clue. I have felt the deepest guilt when I’ve wanted people to read my work when I haven’t been able to bring myself to read long texts (and books of others.) I’ve felt stunted because everybody professes that to be a good writer, you need to be an avid reader. But most of all, I’ve felt an urgency knowing that the child within me is patiently waiting to reclaim what is mine.
I am grateful to medium. I have engaged with everything I’ve recommended. I’ve read them. I’ve enjoyed them. They have widened my scope.
And now that I am finally taking practical steps to manage my anxiety, I would like to find my way back to being a book lover. A book club may give me some accountability. But whether I join one or not, I want to dive into books again, and lose and find myself.
