charlana

I feel like reading. I just want to sit around and read and be inspired. I want to read a book and find little passages that I could swear I've thought or done or said before. I want to escape real life for a few hours--hide in between paragraphs instead.
Books, along with countless friends, therapists, and songs over the years, have definitely kept me going. Books were always a sure-fire way of knowing that I wasn't alone in thinking what I think and doing the stupid things that I do. Sad books, mainly. Books about drug addiction and eating disorders and depression and suicide. Those are the books I've become obsessed with. Why? Because then I know it's true. Then I know that my therapists were right every time they said, "You're not alone."
I'm feeling alone again, as I do a few times a week. Like there isn't a soul out there that understands. Like no one could possibly like me or respect me or think that I have something intelligent to say. So I'm going to go read a book and remember that there are others out there.

"Somewhere in the back of my brain there exists this certainty: The body is no more than a costume, and can be changed at will. That the changing of bodies, like costumes, would make me into a different character, a character who might, finally, be all right."
from Wasted by Marya Hornbacher