It was a Tuesday night in October last year. I was working late as usual and it was just me and another teacher in the staffroom at our academic center in the North of Madrid. This tall handsome stranger and I had been introduced at the beginning of the school year but we hadn’t really talked since then. We were both tapping away at our computers when he started a conversation. "Do you like reading?" he asked from behind his screen and I looked up. I looked at him, then looked away.
I didn’t know how to say that yes, I used to love books but now the mere thought of reading one was so exhausting that I couldn’t even bring myself to try. Finishing a book seemed like an impossible task to accomplish and I didn’t want to add to my never-ending list of failures. I didn’t know how to explain that when you’re overwhelmed by anxiety, reading two sentences after another is already a major undertaking. It's like reading a text with no punctuation - it makes absolutely no sense.
"I like writing." My timid voice broke the awkward silence a while later when the part of me that longed for human connection suddenly decided to speak up. The other teacher smiled. "I know a great bookstore. You should go some time." I scribbled down the name and address he gave me and we said goodnight. Desperate literature. That was the name of the bookstore and it made me wonder how much misery my face had given away.
Three days later, I had a free afternoon and decided to go for it. Now, to a normal person, stepping into unknown territory may not seem like such a big deal, but for someone with panic disorder, it requires careful planning and plenty of courage. So when I arrived only to find the store closed for siesta, I did what no normal person would do. I sat down and waited. For two hours. Because I knew that if I left, I would never come back.
The doors finally opened and a friendly girl with purple hair welcomed me. I entered and literally stumbled over a book called Reasons to stay alive, which had been placed on a small table right in front of the door. I picked it up and read the few lines on the back page, then held the book close to my chest.
It was a book written by Matt Haig and it had spoken my name as I was waiting outside. I instinctively knew that this must be why I had been sent here but, unfortunately, I couldn’t afford to buy it. I was still paying off the debts of my hospital bills and wasn’t supposed to spend any money so I put the book down and had a look around.
The shop was small and there were books upon books stacked on the shelves covering the walls all the way up to the ceiling. I took three steps into the back room and found a section of French classics, which I carefully held in my hand before lifting them up to my nose, randomly opening pages and breathing in the smell of words. Sentences. Stories. Sensations. Was this what happiness felt like? I couldn’t quite remember.
I walked in circles around the store and each time I passed the front table I picked up Matt Haig's book again. “We take credit cards!” the cashier cried out the fifth time I came around. My hands shook as I handed her the book along with my card, which was supposed to be for emergencies only. “I’ll take it.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. For the first time in what felt like forever although in reality was only a year, I had someone who understood. Who had been where I was. Who knew what it’s like to stand on the edge, contemplating another step. Matt and I spoke the same language. We talked about insomnia, inability to speak, air too thin to breathe, disconnection, dread, darkness, the weight of guilt, trying to keep afloat, not having a single waking second outside of fear and longing, above all else, to just feel normal.
But not only did Matt understand, he also gave me hope. He didn’t say that it will all be okay because how could it possibly ever be okay. He said it takes time. He said one day, you will see a tiny bit of the blue sky emerge behind the clouds again. You will read one (short) paragraph, then maybe one more and eventually, you will finish a whole chapter. And then start a new one, while leaving an old one behind.
He made me see that depression and anxiety are liars who tell us things that aren’t true. He promised me that even when I feel like I'm sinking, there is a stronger part of me that remains steady. He assured me that pleasure can grow out of the pain and that I will one day feel a joy that matches this sadness. That is the hope that I still live by today and if I forget, I dive into Matt's book to remind myself again. In fact, in the year that has passed since I first visited Desperate Literature, I have read over twenty books and enjoyed every single one of them.
The tall handsome stranger and I never really had a conversation again. We passed by each other in the hallways at work a couple of times, but I never knew how to say thank you. I didn’t know how to tell him how much his words had meant to me. Not just the recommendation but the fact that he saw me when I felt invisible and alone in the world.
We never know what someone is going through, but we also never know who needs to hear what we have to say. Nothing is random and no kind word is ever wasted so don’t be afraid to reach out and break the silence. You might just give someone a reason to live.
I didn’t know how to say that yes, I used to love books but now the mere thought of reading one was so exhausting that I couldn’t even bring myself to try. Finishing a book seemed like an impossible task to accomplish and I didn’t want to add to my never-ending list of failures. I didn’t know how to explain that when you’re overwhelmed by anxiety, reading two sentences after another is already a major undertaking. It's like reading a text with no punctuation - it makes absolutely no sense.
"I like writing." My timid voice broke the awkward silence a while later when the part of me that longed for human connection suddenly decided to speak up. The other teacher smiled. "I know a great bookstore. You should go some time." I scribbled down the name and address he gave me and we said goodnight. Desperate literature. That was the name of the bookstore and it made me wonder how much misery my face had given away.
Three days later, I had a free afternoon and decided to go for it. Now, to a normal person, stepping into unknown territory may not seem like such a big deal, but for someone with panic disorder, it requires careful planning and plenty of courage. So when I arrived only to find the store closed for siesta, I did what no normal person would do. I sat down and waited. For two hours. Because I knew that if I left, I would never come back.
The doors finally opened and a friendly girl with purple hair welcomed me. I entered and literally stumbled over a book called Reasons to stay alive, which had been placed on a small table right in front of the door. I picked it up and read the few lines on the back page, then held the book close to my chest.
 |
| Desperate Literature |
The shop was small and there were books upon books stacked on the shelves covering the walls all the way up to the ceiling. I took three steps into the back room and found a section of French classics, which I carefully held in my hand before lifting them up to my nose, randomly opening pages and breathing in the smell of words. Sentences. Stories. Sensations. Was this what happiness felt like? I couldn’t quite remember.
I walked in circles around the store and each time I passed the front table I picked up Matt Haig's book again. “We take credit cards!” the cashier cried out the fifth time I came around. My hands shook as I handed her the book along with my card, which was supposed to be for emergencies only. “I’ll take it.”
That night, I didn’t sleep. For the first time in what felt like forever although in reality was only a year, I had someone who understood. Who had been where I was. Who knew what it’s like to stand on the edge, contemplating another step. Matt and I spoke the same language. We talked about insomnia, inability to speak, air too thin to breathe, disconnection, dread, darkness, the weight of guilt, trying to keep afloat, not having a single waking second outside of fear and longing, above all else, to just feel normal.
But not only did Matt understand, he also gave me hope. He didn’t say that it will all be okay because how could it possibly ever be okay. He said it takes time. He said one day, you will see a tiny bit of the blue sky emerge behind the clouds again. You will read one (short) paragraph, then maybe one more and eventually, you will finish a whole chapter. And then start a new one, while leaving an old one behind.
He made me see that depression and anxiety are liars who tell us things that aren’t true. He promised me that even when I feel like I'm sinking, there is a stronger part of me that remains steady. He assured me that pleasure can grow out of the pain and that I will one day feel a joy that matches this sadness. That is the hope that I still live by today and if I forget, I dive into Matt's book to remind myself again. In fact, in the year that has passed since I first visited Desperate Literature, I have read over twenty books and enjoyed every single one of them.
The tall handsome stranger and I never really had a conversation again. We passed by each other in the hallways at work a couple of times, but I never knew how to say thank you. I didn’t know how to tell him how much his words had meant to me. Not just the recommendation but the fact that he saw me when I felt invisible and alone in the world.
We never know what someone is going through, but we also never know who needs to hear what we have to say. Nothing is random and no kind word is ever wasted so don’t be afraid to reach out and break the silence. You might just give someone a reason to live.
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| Inhale - stay in the present moment. Exhale - it's a wonderful moment. |
