She was a young girl, her hair so light that it could have been made of the sun. She was sitting in the front row of the bus, and her eyes, which were a blue-gray color that she had always found rather dull, were shining with fear. However, behind this fear, there was a hint of excitement; she was on the “big-kid” bus for the first time.

All around her, the older students talked and laughed about their day at the elementary school, their bags filled with notebooks, binders, and pencils. Being a first-grader, she didn’t have much with her; just herself and her almost-empty backpack that was emblazoned with the impossibly perfect face of a Barbie princess.

Out of nowhere, the sixth grade boys laughed about something, and the girl, startled by the sudden outburst, jumped in her seat. Letting out a nervous breath, she flattened out her skirt with trembling hands and stared down at her shoes, which were on the wrong feet. Reaching across the dull-gray bus seat, she grabbed her bag with her tiny arms, clutching it against her chest. She instantly smiled at the reassuring weight in her bag - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

When her mother had finally allowed her to read novels, she had jumped at the opportunity. After that, she had started to find books as something safe, something that, even when nothing in the world made sense, she could understand with ease.

Little did she know that years later, books would still be her source of calm.

Who was this small and naive girl?

She was me.

She was me before I found out our perfect little world wasn’t so perfect. Before I met Society and it pushed me down and laughed. Before life kicked at my heels and spat in my face. Before I worried about being accepted. Before I had to resort to hiding from myself and everyone around me.

She was me, but before it went wrong.

Not everything changed, however; the importance that the written word has in my life is practically unfathomable. Not that Society didn’t try to change that, too, because it certainly gave its best shot. It crawled on its hands and knees, begging, pleading for me to fit into this cookie-cutter world, but no matter how much it begged, or whatever insults it threw my way, I couldn’t give in. I wouldn’t give Society the only escape I have left.

That’s what books are for me - an escape. I don’t read because I like the stories, or because I have nothing better to do, or because I want to know what happens (although those are all true); I read to escape. Where I am when I read doesn’t matter. I suppose it should, but it just doesn’t. It doesn’t matter if it’s summer and I’m on a crowded bus, the colors dull and the air filled with the smell of gas and sweat, the meaningless chatter of strangers buzzing in my ears and the sun glaring through the windows like an angry parent. It doesn’t matter if it’s the dead of winter and I’m burrowed under a dozen blankets, the only noise being the occasional mew from the cat, and the windows are painted with icy masterpieces. It even doesn’t matter if I’m in the prison we call school, the people around me causing the anxiety to flow through my veins and mind like poison. It doesn’t matter where I am, or what’s going on in this dull reality, because as soon as I have the chance to dig into my bag and pull out a book, it all starts to fade away. The only things I can hear in this messed-up world are the familiar crackle of the spine and the ruffling of the pages.

All the problems of the real world disappear, and I’m in an entirely different world; one where adventure is right around the corner, where a happy ending is inevitable, where magic is no longer fiction, where the world is in full color, where any problem has a solution, and where no one is too far gone to save. I’m in a world where life is perfect. Somewhere I don’t have to stress about my own problems - where I can worry myself with something so fictitious that I can’t help but believe it.

I’ve been carrying books for ten years, yet I’m still astonished by my inability to describe what it feels like. On one hand, the weight of a book is lighter than air - it’s there to support me, carry me, to distract me from this cruel reality. On the other hand, however, a book is the heaviest thing I can possibly imagine. When I feel the weight of a book, it’s a constant reminder that, in the end, a book is just words on a page. It’s not real, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t change that. Any effect a book has is unshared by the people I spend reality with.

When I say this, it seems like my best option is to accept the fact that they are “just books,” but I can’t. If I don’t have books, I have nothing. Who cares if books are just fiction? They have done so much more for me than the real world ever has. People don’t help stop the attacks - books do.

When the attacks come, it’s as if some twisted nurse is coming towards me with my daily dose of anxiety - sure, I’d prefer not to get that shot, but I’m used to it. However, what I don’t know is that the nurse accidentally doubled my quadrupled my dosage. That’s what it feels like - there’s never any sort of lead-up. I don’t know it’s coming until it has started. By that point, I’m too far to be redeemed.

The extra dosage surges through my veins, and the walls close around me. My breathing quickens, and I feel sick to my stomach. I desperately try to shield myself from my mind, like some sinister game of hide-and-seek, but it’s no use; the thoughts find me, screaming at me from the inside until I can think of nothing else. As I sit there with my knees tucked against my chest, my heartbeat quickens and my body trembles.

After what could’ve been five minutes or an hour, I’m finally calm enough to almost have a rational thought, and then I go to the place I always go: my bookshelf. Still feeling nauseous, I blindly pull away a book, and then something happens.

Just like that young girl in the front of the bus, my trembling starts to ease, and my breathing steadies. The knot in my stomach slowly starts to unwind. Just like the girl with the impossibly light hair, just having the book in my hands calms me down. That poor little girl; she has no idea what Society has planned for her.

Society doesn’t understand why I carry books. All society can say is, “Why don’t you get your face out of that book? Go make friends.” Well, Society, guess what? There’s a reason I don’t have tons of friends: most people end up being just like you.

Besides, words are my best friend. They make me laugh, cry, and everything inbetween. They’re there for me when no one else is. If Society doesn’t deem that acceptable, then, for once, I don’t care what Society thinks. No friendship has ever supported me more than the written word.

I’ve heard it said that people who read miss out on life, but I completely disagree. People who don’t read get to live one life; readers can live a thousand. Readers can live as many lives as they choose to, and each and every one of them is better than reality.

That’s what I love about books. There is no limit to where life leads - if you can imagine it, it’s possible. The sky is no longer the limit. With books, I can touch the stars, explore new and unseen worlds. I can fly through the skies, meet new people all around the world. I can find my place, find friendship where I never expected to look. I can travel through time, or even save the world. I can make a difference. Of course all of these things are in my head, but why should that mean that they’re not real?

Through books, I know who I am. I know where I belong. I can endure life because of those words on a page. I can keep going because of them. Because of books, I know I have a source of serenity that will never leave or forsake me. Because of books, I know that I can never be broken beyond repair.

 
Through books, I have the ability to do anything, and so could anyone else. Anyone could carry books - all they have to do is try.