In my last post, I talked a bit about Matt Haig’s literature-heavy antidote to depression, and mentioned that his own book had helped me immensely during some of my most despairing moments. That was true.
I also said that reading a book tipped me into the first quasi-depressive episode I ever experienced. That was true, as well.
I’ve been thinking quite a bit about that contradiction, lately. I think that Haig is right when he says that reading is a pathway out of ourselves, and out of minds that are turning on us. But I also think that that outward journey can have devastating effects when we crash back into ourselves too suddenly. Continue reading
This isn’t a book review in the usual sense. It can’t be—the subject matter is just too personal. I’m an emotional reader anyway—the kind who projects herself into books and uses books to understand herself—but I’m not sure I’ve ever read anything where the identification was so immediate. This wasn’t reading a story I could empathize with; this was reading my own story. Continue reading
A heads up—although my ability to update this blog in a timely fashion hasn’t really been affected so far, I think there’s a good chance they’ll be a longer gap between posts in the near future. There are two reasons for this, one good (yay!) and one bad (boo!).