I can always tell when the crazy ratchets up a few notches in my life, because I lose the ability to read anything substantive.
Books are the canary in the coal mine, revealing the state of my mental health.
When I’m losing my marbles because everything is more wild, I can’t focus on anything literary or even remotely challenging. Reading remains a lifeline, but it is for purely escapist purposes. It isn’t allowed to demand anything from me, other than a willingness to sink into a plush story which exists solely to entertain.
I’ve become that person at book club who’s all, “Nope. It didn’t happen this month.”
And then I go back to reading A Game of Thrones.
And drinking Cherry Coke, because as Dutch likes to remind me, hiding in a cocoon of fantasy and intrigue and totally made up countries and people is better than an alcohol/prescription drug addiction.