Harry Potter & the Little Bookworm

or that time JK Rowling totally changed my perception of reading.

“After nourishment, shelter and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world.” ― Philip Pullman

I had always been a bit of a bookworm, which I probably picked up from my parents who themselves had been avid readers when they were young. I remember when I was a little girl my mom took me along to the library, a small red brick building mainly occupied by old ladies with cloying perfumes, and allowed me to browse the children’s section on my own. I borrowed books like Sweet Valley High and the Baby Sitter’s club and although I still have fond memories of the latter I can’t claim I was exposed to many masterpieces. In hindsight I wish my young self could have dicovered books like Wind in the Willows and Whinnie the Pooh, but I made do with what I knew. I loved reading, but at that point in my life it was nothing more than a hobby, a way to pass the time. That all changed when I first discovered the Harry Potter series.

I encountered the Harry Potter phenomenon after the release of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I started the series with book four since it was the only Harry Potter book the library had available at that time and I wasn’t prepared to wait out the long waiting list for book one. Harry Potter changed my perception of reading.

Never before had reading been such a vivid and mesmeric experience. I was transported, disconnected from reality in a kind of out of body experience. It was liberating. Reading became a necessity; it became my oxygen in times I felt like I could hardly breath from anxiety and fear. It was the safe space I ran to when the world became too much for me to handle. One of my fondest memories is sitting on a hard bench in the freezing cold during my school lunch break, utterly absorbed in this alternate universe, while around me kids were screaming and playing games. I was so lost in the story that I heard nothing, not even the loud clanging of the bell that signaled the end of the lunch break. A fellow classmate had to repeat my name multiple times just to return me to reality; I hadn’t noticed the cold, the noise, or the uncomfortable bench. It was a totally immersive experience, one I became obsessed with replicating.

I would read at night until I was literally falling asleep with the book in my hands and read some more as soon as my eyes opened in the morning, every available second I filled with the written word. Then, for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I stopped reading. This was never a conscious descision, the amount of books I read in any given time simply dwindeled until I was maybe reading a book a year. I was battling with depressive episodes amidst difficult times, puberty did not help matters, and I had nothing to help me to escape. No more doorways to show me ways of coping, alternate ways of thinking or reminders that I was not alone. I had no window to shine some light on an otherwise dark state of mind. My safe space became something inacessible. I felt lost, alone, confused and like a failure; a raw nerve exposed to all the harshness of the world.

Looking back on that time illustrates to me the necessity and importance of stories in one’s life. I believe books can anchor us to this world, anchor us in reality and the shared experience of humanity. Stories remind us that we’re not alone in our sufferings and our joy, they remind us that nothing and no one is ever truly lost and that, at some point, light always finds its way through the dark.