A Quiet Place to Rest

The diagnosis of depression came thirteen years ago, in my early teens. Barely into puberty and already clinging to what little mental reserves I had left, I turned to a myriad of hobbies in order to distract myself. At first we fumbled together in these unknown waters, my mother and I, as we tried to grapple with this gaping cavern beneath our feet. What was I going to face for the rest of my life? How was I going to deal with it and come out the other side in one piece? 

One thing they don’t really disclose as you’re sitting in that tiny room, talking to a stranger who asks all the right, devastating questions, is that this is sometimes a permanent fixture in your life. I learned that depression will never completely leave me, but I picked myself up and barrelled on, day by day, like so many of us do.

Though as the years dragged on, and as I struggled to break through the surface of each drowning wave in the bitter cycle, you can imagine the toll it takes on a person. I would ride out the exhaustive lows, hang on to what little light I could see, and eventually I would come out the other side. 

But it left me feeling hollowed out and numb, like someone had scooped out my insides with a rusty spoon and sewed me back up. I could not focus on my many projects and hobbies that so often brought me gratification. I could not sit down and force words onto a page. A paintbrush was too heavy for the fragile threads of my motivation, and the act of cooking was no longer a comfort. 

In these quiet, brief periods where I was slowly gluing myself back together, my brain didn’t need a productive, fruitful distraction. 

It needed a place to rest. 

And so, as cliche as it sounds, I turned to reading. 

Through my years of trial and error and learning what coping mechanisms worked for me, I fell into reading each and every time. This is a hobby I have adored ever since I learned how. An old love, a gentle love, and one I still cherish with my entire soul. 

It is a place of contentment; intense peace and quiet joy. I spend hours in solitude, scouring my bookshelves or online stores for the right novel that caught my attention. It could be a thousand page epic fantasy, or a “trashy” romance novel purely for self-indulgence, and my tired little heart would lift with a joy so swiftly it stole my breath.

That sort of joy has grown scarcer the older I get. And it is sweetly addictive as it is all-consuming. 

I would dedicate hours of my day between my job to reading. With the condition I could not start until I had tied away my adult responsibilities, I would lose myself. 

In the absolute best of ways. 

I let myself spend hours in isolation, wading through these words, these pages — stories so far beyond that of my own experiences. They would sweep me along in a fierce current, and I would happily succumb to the peace they brought me. 

There is a reason reading is one of the most popular forms of relaxation. 

But it is more than that. They provide so many with a safe place to settle for a moment or two. With no expectations and nobody to please, I can truly allow myself to be selfish. Stories bring me excitement and sorrow and humour; they bring me a love I have never known for myself, and somehow these made up worlds keep me grounded in reality. They gently corral my sad, tired heart and mind into some semblance of contentment. 

I know they are only stories. I know that each one must end, but to me that is something to rejoice in — because it means I can wallow in the satisfaction of completing a task I set out to do, and I can search for a new world to lose myself in again. 

Just for a little while.