As the cracks in our marriage began to widen, only our reading time seemed to be the salve to heal our wounds. It was our own world, filled with characters who we both loved and deplored. We could have just had a nasty argument, but if I was in the middle of a book, he’d silently hand it to me and I’d sit down and begin the new chapter. I started reading my own pain onto the characters. Sometimes I’d stop reading to sob. He’d patiently wait, try to calm me down, and then ask me to please finish the section. At other times, his anger towards the characters were a reflection of his own fears about us. I knew that our marriage was ending, but we were bound by our love for words.
Others would say to me, ‘It is only temporary, it will pass, you will get over it,’ but of course they had no idea how I felt, although they were certain that they did. Over and over and over I would say to myself, If I can’t feel, if I can’t move, if I can’t think, and I can’t care, then what conceivable point is there in living?
Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind (via deconstructionandcriticism)