I hate it here

I have recently rediscovered my love of reading, much to my delight. I read a book in a 2 days! A feat I haven't achieved in a long time. (It was Flowers in the Attic, by Virginia Andrews for anyone interested. I am currently reading The Thursday Murder Club, by Richard Osman).

I often used to spend hours each day, reclined on the sofa, forgetting to even eat I was so engrossed in my books. Fantasy lands, with danger and romance and action. Filled with misery and hope and heroes and heroines facing their demons, fighting for themselves and becoming free of the bindings that were holding them back. Moving away from the weak, dependent character we see in the beginning, and transforming into the hero we idolise, the heroine we aspire to be.

Like many people I'm sure, books were an escape. Books were somewhere I felt happy, and free to roam in a magical place where I felt like I fit in, I felt strong, I felt confident, as if I could face the same demons head on and kick them in the butt.

However, like many people I'm sure, it never gave me that edge, it never gave me the real push I needed to actually battle my way out of my funk and enter the real world with that same determination and will to live, to survive and to thrive.

Eventually, I just stopped reading. The escape wasn't enough. It didn't heal what I needed it to heal. I hated it here, and the books were my only escape from the harsh reality that was my life swirling down the drain. The books stopped being enough to stop the hands grabbing my ankles and dragging me down into the pit.

When I would read, I would be totally emersed in the land described to me. I would become one of the characters, one of the townspeople, a side character. In the background watching this grand tale unfold, wishing I could be part of it. It would totally suck me in and I would forget to eat, and read late into the night until the book fell onto my face because I had passed out mid sentence.

It would bring me such joy and I couldn't tell you exactly when I stopped reading, and the books on my shelf began to gather dust until I got rid of them altogether, but I know I lost something in me that I quite liked. Something in me that longed for something more, and enjoyed the daydream.

I could read 2 books a week on a good week. I would always be totally taken in those few days. I would read, and re-read my favourite stories and daydream my day away when I couldn't sit down and read. I was a real daydreamer. I don't know when that stopped.

These days I have little time for day dreaming. I'm in my thirties with a proper grown up job and a daughter who needs my attention and a husband who I am desperate to show affection to and make up for the years of misery and neglect I inflicted upon him during my depressive phase. I don't have time to daydream. I don't have time or the brain capacity to daydream about a life I would never lead. A fantasy world where I am the heroine fighting for what's good, and what is right.

Books were a joy I didn't understand the need for until I started again. I didn't fully grasp how much I had missed them in the years I hadn't been reading. I tried to pick it up once or twice over the years, but I hadn't reached the point of healing where I could really enjoy the stories and focus my mind on the books. I was trapped somewhere else, somewhere daydreamers aren't welcome.

Daydreamers are optimistic, full of love, and hopeful. These are things I believe I am learning to be again. I have hope that I am on the right track and that I can once again pretend to be the heroine, I can fight dragons, rule kingdoms, capture hearts, and defeat the bad guys. And I hope that someday my daughter may even see me as her hero, I hope I can become that strong. 

I hope she develops a love of books and can visualise the worlds beyond our own, the fantasy lands, full of magic and hope. I hope she has a secret space inside her mind, just for her. A hidden world, a secret garden, where only she has the key. 

I hope I too can rediscover my own little secret garden, behind all the overgrown weeds and ivy over the stone walls. I hope I can find it, rip away the greenery barricading the rotting wooden door, and unlock it with the iron key that's been hanging on my neck, the key that I finally now remember where it leads to.