I’ve always had one true way of escapism. Something that has never failed to transform the world around me and allow a few short minutes – sometimes even hours – of blissful distraction. I read.
Having spent so much of my childhood and teenage years in hospital, there was, realistically, very little I could do to avoid my surroundings.
There is very little I can remember of being diagnosed, but one image that has never left me is my father reading to me. I grew up in an extremely literary household, and so when we were confined in the walls of a medical institution, this was the natural reaction to escape and distract.
Ever since, books have always been my go-to for any – and most – uncomfortable or otherwise unfortunate situation.
I know that most people would say that escapism unhealthy, and often a nice was of saying “avoidance”, and sometimes, that’s true. However, it can also be viewed as a refuge, a place for light in tragic darkness.
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