I remember how over the summer we had to keep Reading Logs. I read over 60 books in one summer. I would read non-stop, for hours on end until I had finished the novel, or finished the series. I spent so much time reading and would completely envelope myself into whatever plot I had chosen to succumb to for the day. Books were my safe haven. They provided an escape to a comparatively boring life; one that completely lacked certain creatures, certain people, the certain friends that could only be brought to life via the vivid hallucinations that one has and feels when reading the words off a well-written page. My memory fades as I grow older, but the influence of all those different plots remains implanted into my very being. Reading all sorts of books instilled in me the value of a storyline. They instilled in me the value and power of emotion. Of feeling. Reading books while growing up, I think, helped teach me about the varying complexities of humanity in ways that one simply can’t experience in real life. They taught me to take control of my own life. I am my own life’s author. Books may works of fiction, but that doesn’t make the reading experience any less real. Books are a powerful and good escape to the horrors of our reality.
I’m in Japan. Downtown Tokyo. Train station. I’m sitting on top of my suitcase. It’s probably in the mid-nineties. I’m 10. Ugh. It’s so hot; I’m sweating. My dad brings us back a bento box with tempura and a perfectly cut ham sandwich. Two triangles of perfect looking white-bread. Crust is cut off. Japanese bento boxes are the best thing ever. Dad hands me a bottle of water. I’m so thirsty. I finish the bento box and bottle of water in record time. And then I go back to what I’d been doing in our waiting time between modes of transportation. Little House of the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder. This is one of my most vivid memories while being in Japan. Traveling throughout the country and reading all her books. They took up a majority of my time in the first couple weeks of my 2 month stay in Japan.
I’m in our green Toyota mini van. We’re passing through Portland on our way to San Diego. The landscape outside is rolling hills of golden wheat. It’s a beautiful sight. The air conditioning is on, so we’re all at a perfectly comfortable temperature. I read through book after book on the 23 hour ride down to San Diego. I think it’s been 45 minutes and it’s been 6 hours. I cry a couple times. Reading in the car to pass the hours away.
I think it was The Phantom Tollbooth by Jules Feiffer. They were about to confront another intense riddle and all I remember is being shaken violently on my shoulder by my little sister.
“CHARLOTTE. DINNER TIME.”
I had been reading so intensely that I did not hear my name that had been being called for the past 5 minutes straight. I didn’t even have headphones on or anything. It almost feels like I’m hallucinating when I’m reading; I get so into the plot. Does that happen to you?
I don’t know how to begin to describe the feeling of living in a book. And I must confess, I seem to have lost my creative energy for reading. Not to say that it can’t be gotten back. But I miss the nights where I could be so enthralled by a plot that I stay up all night to finish reading it. I would argue that reading books keeps the mind sharp. In order to correctly read a book you must be able to get into the a plot. You must be able to relate to the characters and feel with and for them as a friend and as a helpless bystander. You can only read and watch as the story unfolds before you.
Reading a lot of books exposes you to the spectrum of human emotion. It makes you really think about the complexities between all of the characters. You become friends with them. At least that’s how it feels to me. It’s an experience. You can feel different lives. You can feel the intense sorrow of death. You can feel the heat of love and flirtation. You can feel and understand desperation and see how the inner workings of maniacs and villians and heroes and heroines work. You get know know the minds of so many people that you never thought you would. It is an experience. Books can be life-shaping and life-changing. It’s beautiful.
Books and their stories have been there for me and in my darkest times. I’m not going to talk about how much they help the rest of the world since this is more of a personal narrative assignment. That said. Depression is a human thing. I’d argue that Humans suffer from Depression. Depression has taken the lives of countless individuals and it’s devastating that we as a society don’t discuss mental health issues in a brighter, more open-minded and cooperative light. All this said, I think books are a very powerful, therapeutic tool. Like I stated before, books transport the mind to a different place. They give you a break from our own heartbreaking reality. On bad days I’d force myself out of bed eventually, make my way to the shower. Then I’d kick back with a cup of tea and a good book and just lose myself.
I have lost my love of reading in the past couple years. High school really just takes that out of you if you’re not careful. Reading doesn’t become a leisure activity. It becomes required and it becomes a painful activity that you are dragged to do. At least that’s how it was in my case. And since then, my attention span has gotten worse. I haven’t read a book for fun in ages and because of that I think my mind has untrained itself to sustain prolonged period of thought like that. I need to retrain my brain. I am a walking warning to other growing children and even adults. My depression has gotten worse because of this. My inability to read a book. I told my psychologist one time that I wouldn’t be the mess that I am today if I could get into a book like I could when I was younger. I’m not sure what the problem is. But it vexes me. I miss the nights where I could be so enthralled by a plot that I would stay up the whole night just to finish it.
Reading provides a healthy, powerful and decidedly GOOD escape for all individuals, but me specifically. Books have traveled with me all over the world and the characters have been my companions in the darkest of places. I’ve been able to completely envelop myself in a book to the point where I can’t hear anything going on around me and when the only time I’m brought back to reality is when I take a break to find a box of tissues to wipe the tears from my bawling eyes. I miss those times and hope to retrain my brain back to that level of intensity. Books taught me how to be a sensitive human. They taught me how to be the evilest of villains. They taught me how to take control of my own soul and create my own destiny.
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