In this post, there are mentions of depression and suicide, so please read with care and caution. If you want to skip this week’s newsletter, that’s completely okay - see you for The Offcuts on Monday.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this article I read on the healing power of reading. I agreed with the sentiments immediately. Yes, yes, yes, reading can definitely make you happier. It took until two thirds of the way through to realise - fuck, this is me. I unintentionally self-prescribed a course of reading during the lowest point of my life.
It’s hard to pinpoint the exact time of conception of ‘bibliotherapy’. The power of books as tools for healing could be argued to date back thousands of years. However, the term has only been used since the early twentieth century. In the article, Ceridwen Dovey states:
“Reading has been shown to put our brains into a pleasurable trance-like state, similar to meditation, and it brings the same health benefits of deep relaxation and inner calm. Regular readers sleep better, have lower stress levels, higher self-esteem, and lower rates of depression than non-readers.”
Research suggests that reading for as little as six minutes daily can lower stress levels by 60%.
I’ve told you before that I reconnected with reading a few years ago. My reading was intermittent in the years after university. I suppose my relationship with books had changed. The enforcement of reading left a sour, lingering taste. I don’t enjoy being told what to do. I’ve told you I eased my way back in by digging out an old Kindle and listening to audiobooks, picking up momentum so that since 2020, I’ve rarely spent more than a few days at a time without a book in my hand. Though I’m not sure I’ve ever detailed in words, even privately, the extent to which books truly saved me during that time.
As a depressed 24-year-old suffering from suicidal ideation in the middle of lockdown, I clung to anything that helped bring colour to my world and give me a sense of purpose. The monotony of days contributed to a perfect storm. A time suspended from reality that, for the most part, we’ve fought hard to forget. The depression I had already been aware of spiralled quickly. The isolation I felt in my mind mirrored the literal ‘isolation’ we were trapped in for months on end. There was simply nothing to cling to or ground myself to convince myself that better days were waiting ahead. I was grappling for something - anything - that would stand unwavering in the face of utter futility.
For better or worse, I have relied on lists to shape my days for years, revelling in the satisfaction of ticking something off. The sweet taste of achievement. Finding ways to feel content with how I spent my days when I had been furloughed from my job and could only leave the hour for an hour for exercise was worse than searching for a needle in a haystack. All I kept asking myself was ‘then what?’ If I had managed to muster even a wisp of hope or enthusiasm for something, the dark cloud of pointlessness loomed - then what?
When I devoured Sally Rooney’s Normal People in one day, I was transported, if only for a few hours, somewhere outside of myself. The thoughts which were plaguing my mind and making my life feel worthless had been temporarily suspended; paused and replaced with the fictitious narrative of Marianne and Connell’s tragic love story.
The ‘frivolity’ of reading was an attitude that gained traction in the Victorian era. At least where fiction and novels were concerned. It was dismissed as a throwaway pastime, something to approach with caution, as it might distract from the important and more esteemed things like non-fiction and poetry. It was, therefore, something more acceptable for women to engage in. Women weren’t taken seriously, so why should their interests be?
The trend has persisted. Just five years ago, statistics suggested that women contributed 80% to the sale of all fiction novels. In terms of writing fiction, female authors now dominate the category. It’s worth noting that male writers still, disproportionately, receive greater praise and are deemed to be more literary, and as readers, men harbour a greater bias, being less likely to read fiction written by women. Just last month, Esquire appealed for men to read more fiction - yay! Then suggested they specifically seek out male authors - not so yay.
While I love to subvert the dirty label of frivolous by reading fiction, it wasn’t just make-believe stories that gave me solace. I distinctly remember, during that time, listening to the audiobook of Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig while having a bath. I lost count of the times I had to add more hot water because I just couldn’t stop listening. I was pruned from head to toe. Hearing someone recount in their own words the ways life managed to become meaningful for them again after attempting to end their own life resonated with me at a time when I desperately needed to hear it.
Storytelling is an art form. It can be a political tool, cultural lore, written, spoken, visual, or even a weapon in the wrong hands. We tell ourselves stories in order to live. The human condition is shaped by understanding the experiences of others. Where fiction is concerned, even imaginary people can help to give us new perspectives or offer respite. Books can put into words what we’ve been struggling to articulate ourselves. I see it even more so through writing, attuned to the poetic beauty of other authors who draw upon their own feelings and experiences to transform them into a new world. One that relates to me and makes me feel understood.
Reading gave my life meaning, without having the pressure of productivity, needing to reach a certain goal, or the risk of failure attached to it. I am so grateful reading found its way back to me when it did, and for every book I’ve read over the last five years that’s helped to make me feel a sense of belonging.
