Books have always held a certain kind of solace for me. The ability to step into another world and experience a different kind of reality is comforting. There was a time, not too long ago, when I read between 20 and 30 books a month. About 6 months ago, that all changed. My parts lost interest in reading and staged a mutiny of sorts. With the result that, since then, I’ve managed to read maybe 3 books, and I don’t think I actually finished all three.
Today, as I struggle with a new development in my life, a situation which is keenly painful for all my insiders, I long for the comfort of reading. Long to curl up in bed with a good novel in hand, and something to nibble while I read. (Popcorn, sunflower seeds, anything of that nature.) I need the solace that the written words brings; need to be able to enter the world of fiction, losing myself in the spell it weaves. I particularly yearn to read one of my vintage teen novels, something along the line of “Jean and Johnny,” by Beverly Cleary, or perhaps, “Ready or Not,” by Mary Stolz. Today, just for a while, I need to enter that world of sweet innocence where everything centers around the anticipation of a boy’s call. A world which doesn’t include broken relationships, chronic pain, or DID. I need to, just for a while.