Everything I Know About Love I Learned From Romance Novels (22 page)

When I was ten years old, eleven, twelve, I needed to get away. I so desperately needed it, every time my mom’s boyfriend would come into my room and rape me, because I couldn’t stand to be there and face what was going on. It was too much for me, to be in this world. So, I found some place else I could be, some place I was safe and okay. Some place I was loved and cared about. Some place no one would hurt me, and where good would always, always triumph over evil. And I found it in the pages of books.

I remember the first time I actually jumped into a book. It was a children’s mystery book, about a group of friends who wanted to find out what was in the dark, old house on their street, where they’d seen shadows. And I remember reading it, and feeling
in
the house, exploring it with them. It was so real to me; I could smell the mold and feel the spiderwebs clinging to my arms as I walked through the dark hallway. I could feel the fear of the “ghost” or whatever was in there (it was a parrot, haha), the excitement of a new discovery. I was instantly transported to another world, a world where everything was okay, and I didn’t have to be afraid.

Through that hardest time of my life, I read. I read day and night. I read whenever I could get my hands on a book, because I didn’t want to be in the real world. I hated the real world. I needed to get away. And I did. Many times, when he would get to me at night, I found myself thinking about the stories I’d read, about the worlds I’d visited, and it kept me from hurting so much at that moment. It didn’t work every time, but whenever it did, it was relief from all the pain.

For the first few years after the abuse, I think I was in shock, because I didn’t process what happened. It was like a faded distant memory, the abuse. I didn’t think about it at all. Because, really, I didn’t have time to think. Because I read. All the time. One book after another. I was never without a book. I remember going to school and reading through classes, reading in the car on my way home, at the lunch—and dinner—table, waking up early on a weekend to read and staying up late to read. It was all books, books, and books (with the eventual TV show!). And I went through this period of my life so smoothly, thanks to God and thanks to books, because, honestly, I don’t know what would have happened to me if I’d had to deal with the aftermath of abuse at thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

When I was fifteen, it finally dawned on me about the abuse. And not only did I keep reading (a lot!), I started writing. I knew when I was eleven that I wanted to be an author when I grew up, because I loved telling stories, because they took me away from the world, and, most importantly, because I wanted to give other people that needed it a safe place to go. I wrote short stories, created my own characters, my own worlds. I kept reading too. I read and I read and I read through the following years. The summer of when I was seventeen, I read seventeen books in a month. It could have been a miserable summer; instead, it was fun and free. I wasn’t alone, ever, because I had characters to keep me company. I wasn’t sad, because the books made me laugh. I wasn’t bored, because, hello? Books! It was one of the greatest summers of my life.

In my late teens, I was going through a huge turmoil. I was extremely confused because I knew exactly what had happened to me, I remembered all of it, and I didn’t know how that affected me. I kept seeing at abuse groups how messed up people were, and I didn’t want to be like that. I kept seeing how easy it was to give in and feel sorry for yourself, and I didn’t want to be like that. So I read. And when I read, I found characters who’d gone through some of the same things I had. Characters who had become strong, independent, healed women, despite what had happened to them. And I looked up to those women. That’s what I wanted to be like, not a great big mess. I wanted to be okay! And, in books, I found a way to do that. Little steps, but these fictional characters helped me follow the right path.

Later things got even more complicated. I made a lot of bad decisions. I did some really stupid things. I started having my bipolar crisis, which left me in a state where I couldn’t control myself. I felt the world was falling apart, and there was just no way to stop it. And I wanted out. I wanted out of here ASAP. But there were books. And not only did books take me away when I really needed to get out of here—I could do it temporarily instead of permanently—but they gave me a reason to live. I mean, how could I possibly kill myself when there were so many books for me to read? So many characters to discover? So many worlds to see? I couldn’t. And I lived, one day after the other.

I can’t count the times I’ve wanted to die, really wanted to die, and instead, I grabbed a book and flipped through the pages, looking for comfort, for care and understanding. Crying, so many times I sat crying, because those words on the page were the only understanding I’d ever gotten, because they were the only company I had, the only “friends” who didn’t look at me superficially and neglected to see my pain. I’d sit there, biting my lip so hard it bled, reading the same pages over and over and over, because there was a happy ending—and if
she
could have a happy ending, she who was so hurt by her family, by that guy, by that serial killer, by life itself—then so could I. If a “hero” looked at her and saw beyond her scars, if he didn’t care that she was sexually abused, that she was messed up, there could be a guy like that for me, couldn’t there? I wouldn’t want to miss that. So I lived to find out. And I still do.

When I say books saved me, I’m not exaggerating. If it weren’t for books—that gave me comfort, friendship, understanding, and hope—I don’t think I would have survived through everything I did. They make it all seem worthy, you know? It’s like, no matter what you go through in your life, how hard it is, how messed up, there’s always hope, there’s always someone, there’s always a happy ending. And, believing that makes me go on.

I wonder if authors know how much their words matter, how much they can truly change someone’s life. In the last year, I’ve started reading authors’ blogs, and I see them struggling to get the words on the page, sometimes exhausted, sometimes annoyed, sometimes over it. I know they ask themselves, sometimes, whether it’s worth it, to give everything of themselves, for sometimes shitty pay and bad reviews (even when their books are great!). I wish I could tell them all that there’s someone out there, someone who needs to get away from the world, someone who’s hurting more than they can handle, maybe someone who is thinking about killing themselves and looking for a reason not to, who is going to pick up their book tonight and let it be their safe haven. Who will forget the pain for a while, and just go to another world. They’re going to meet new people. They get to not be themselves for a while, and sometimes, that’s what they need the most. Maybe they’ll find a reason to live. Sometimes, I want to write a note to every author I’ve read during my hardest times. A single sentence: “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Without books, I wouldn’t be here today. I wouldn’t be as healed…With books you’re never alone. Books are friends.”—
ANONYMOUS, A READER

Many years later, I still want to be an author. I want, more than anything, to give someone a safe place to go, give them freedom, friends, love, and understanding. I want to save lives. So to answer your question, what helped me the most in the process of healing were books. Stories. Fictional stories with great characters and happy endings. Without books, I wouldn’t be here today. I wouldn’t be as healed. And I am. I’ve come such a long way. With books you’re never alone. Books are friends.