serinde

After I got back from Artists Way last night, Steve and I talked for awhile about the various topics and items that I've slowly been discovering in the course of these efforts. And one of the realizations we, erm, realized is that-- Well, it's not news that I'm a compulsive reader. But I've become more and more of a compulsive reader, that is, I pick up a book not because I want to read it but because I am under compulsion to have words in front of my face. And it may be something I know by heart and have read ten times in the past two months--and it usually is; another aspect is that I will pick up something I've read out over something new--but I still get irritable and snappish if disturbed, even if I were capable of reciting every word on the page, and the worst of all is that oftentimes I'm not enjoying the reading. And I've noticed this and been disturbed by it, but hadn't been able to suss the underlying emotional foo, so didn't know what to do. Last night, we formulated the theory that this is, apparently, the only way I have of marking out my own time; that if I need to be by myself, my brain can only express this by hiding behind a book. And it's gotten worse over the years as I've had less and less private recreation time, which of course makes perfect sense. It's All So Clear Now. Books have always been my defense against things I don't want to cope with, but it's devolved into some kind of weird addictive relationship and I've nearly lost my ability to do it for recreation any more.

So, yet another sign being waved in my face that I need to set aside more "me time"; and to break the cycle of compulsion so I can go back to enjoying what is one of my favorite pastimes--in moderation.