I’ve always used books to hide from harsh realities surrounding me. I’ve laid in bed this summer and lost count of the books I’ve devoured. If there is something happening in my life that my brain cannot handle, the book count goes up. I escape.
Books are my drug.
While I’m reading a book, I’m not a chronically ill woman lying in bed aching from scalp to toes. I’m not this lady who is a housewife unable to clean or cook whose mind won’t shut up telling her she’s a failure because she can’t do those things.
When I’m reading a book, I’m somewhere far away from the doctor appointment schedule hanging on the wall.
When I’m reading a book, I’m able to escape the prison of loneliness that comes with chronic illness and being a shut-in living in a rural community unable to drive.
When I’m reading a book, I can join the world that continues to spin and move on while my life feels as if it stands still.
While I’m reading a book, I get to experience past hobbies long left behind when illness took control.
When I’m reading a book, I’m able to swim in the sea, smell the salty air, hike a mountain, run once again, ride a roller coaster and feel the adrenaline rush as the cars fly on the rails.
When I read a book, I get to live.