Not for lack of trying, though. Because I tried. So many times, I tried. I would force myself to read a page every day but I couldn't discipline myself to actually follow through. My mind refused to comprehend the words and my eyes refused to linger long enough on the page to acknowledge what I was trying to read.
For as long as I can remember, I've had my nose buried in books. I loved the time I got to spend in our school libraries. My fascination with reading began with Enid Blyton books and I would spend hours with my head bent over her work, marveling at the lives the children lived. And I lived in them as well. I lived in many worlds.
My former Therapist slowly urged me to force myself to begin reading again. Over the past 8 years I don't think I've read more than 50 books. Or 40. Or even 30. I didn't keep count. It was too depressing. So last year I was able to actually hold a book and concentrate on it long enough to read a few pages at a time. I was delighted. It made me remember who I was. And how much I love being lost in tales.
The thing about CPTSD and Depression is that it makes you lose interest in the things that you love the most. It broke my heart to be that disengaged to literature. I forgot myself.
I believe that I have regained my interest in pursuing tales again. It is gradual and inconsistent and it takes a while for me to read a book that I would've finished in one sitting before I found myself with this block obstructing my mind. I suppose a lot of you can relate.
By treating my conditions, I am able to go back to being a version of who I used to be. Granted, it is a raw, jaded and unstable version but that version can read and that is saying a lot. My bookshelf is my pride and my treasure.
Without books, I wouldn't have this imagination nor the beautiful dreams that occasionally grace my broken mind. I wouldn't be me without those worlds I had journeyed into.
I hope this helps.
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