I’ve probably started with a book (or five) the past year and did not finish any, and to be honest, the last book I fully read was in June 2020, and I am so ashamed. I can feel my language weakening and my words becoming less appealing, and I miss the feeling of wholesomeness when reading a beautiful book, but I haven’t, for over a year.
“Between pain and nothing, I’d chosen nothing.”
The past few months have been a rollercoaster, I honestly did not have time for anything, and I have not been alone for a second. Right now, as I said goodbye to my dear loved ones, and I sunk into my empty bed, with the cold AC breeze hurting my skin, I am alone.
I used to be a bookworm, I read all the time and anywhere. I would read a book, finish it in a few days, take a break for a week from all the emotions that linger after, then start with a new one. It was my life, to live in other writers’ worlds, feel feelings that aren’t mine, get consumed by the rush of events and excitement. Nowadays, I am too overwhelmed with my own messiness to live anybody else’s; I have ignored the one thing I loved: reading.
Right now, in my hole of loneliness, I am craving the books, I am craving to feel anything but my feelings. Right now, as I suffer from major separation anxiety (as expected) I cannot but remember my favorite book, the one book that describes loss at its best, the one author that describes loss so thorough that it’s too painful to read that I often found myself hugging the book and closing my eyes because the emotions are just too much to handle.
“Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second-hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.”
New Moon, Stephenie Meyer
You’re probably judging me by now, because you have seen the movie, or because it’s trendy to hate on Twilight, but I’m telling you, you did not read the book. You honestly do not know written pain if you have not read New Moon. I was 14 when I first read Twilight, and I specifically read New Moon more than 20 times, reading and rereading the pain of Stephenie that remains as anguishing as the first time, she describes what it feels to lose:
“It was a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole had been punched through my chest, excising my most vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time. Rationally, I knew my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasped for air and my head spun like my efforts yielded me nothing. My heart must have been beating, too, but I couldn’t hear the sound of my pulse in my ears; my hands felt blue with cold. I curled inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together. I scrambled for my numbness, my denial, but it evaded me.”
New Moon, page 105
This. Exactly this. This is what I feel whenever I lose my close ones; the hole in my chest is surreal that sometimes I feel like if somebody opened me up they will literally find a real hole twisting within my ribs. It’s fear adding to anxiety, I cannot lose people and move on. I avoid music I used to listen to when I was with them, I avoid our common places, certain streets, mutual friends, photos and videos, anything that reminds me of the someone that does not exist in my life anymore. I even avoid them if they tried to reach out, their memory is more powerful than them itself and I protect myself from it all.
And I feel pain inside my guts. I feel the monsters waiting for me to sleep only to wake me up in my most moment of comfort to remind me of what I have lost, to remind me that even though I will find happiness again someday, I will always lose the people I love most.
“I worried- late in the night, when the exhaustion of sleep deprivation broke down my defenses- that it was all slipping away. That my mind was sieve, and I would someday not be able to remember the precise color of his eyes, the feel of his cool skin, or the texture of his voice. I could not think of them, but I must remember them.
Because there was one thing that I had to believe to be able to live- I had to know that he existed. That was all. Everything else I could endure. So long as he existed.”
I will go back to reading again, I promise. Hey you, be a dear and recommend me nice romantic novels that also tackle mental health-preferably depression and loss-that is so compelling I would sniff the pages when finished. Yes, this is the genre I chose, no judgements please.
