October 8, 2012
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People have ever really understood why books mean so much to me. I guess I never did either until recently.
I could say something long and complicated and deep, but it really just boils down to this:
Books are, and have always been my coping mechanism.
Ever since I was really young, I immersed my self in stories and magical lands and far off places, to get away from whatever was going on in my life.
I read anything I could get my hands on.
By the time I was in fifth grade I had read almost everything in the school Library: I’m not exaggerating.
When things were crazy at home: I read.
When my dad and step mom split up: I read.
When my Great Grandfather died: I read.
When I reached middle school and felt utterly hopeless, and turned to hurting myself for relief: I still read, trying to get by.
And now, while struggling with depression, or just sadness, I’m not sure whats going on in my brain really, just that it’s hard to deal with: I pick up a book and make my self read, because the minute I dissolve into the book, I feel okay.
There’s something about how the characters come alive, and almost invite you into their world that just makes everything else disappear. They become familiar, like friends and the worlds they live in almost become like home.
People always look at me funny when I get excited about a book, I’ll get so into it, and talk and talk and talk, and their faces make me wonder if they’ve ever truly been lost in a fantasy world. Escaped from the chaos of reality into something different.

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