My Escape into Books

regankubena353
Jan 2, 2023
5 min read

TW: family violence

It wasn't the first time I got called into the nurses' office for bruises on my back and legs, and it wouldn't be the last. I was seven years old and between inquisitive questions and kind eyes, the Nurse and Counselor sat me down and asked what had happened. I remember not wanting to tell them anything, and I kept my eyes glued to the floor. The last time a teacher had asked questions and CPS got called, my Mother had sat us all down and told us the dangers that would happen if they investigated further, we would be separated and put in the "system" and taken away from everyone and everything we knew.

The Nurse and Counselor left the room and I could hear their soft mummers through the door. I twisted my hands in my lap and glared at the bruise emerging on the side of my thigh. The belt had hit especially hard and had wrapped around. I should have worn pants, it would have avoided the embarrassment of the teacher pulling me aside and gently pulling back my shirt to see the bruise that started at the base of my spine and rolled to the back of my thigh. The Nurse and Counselor were gone for what seemed like hours, they must have called my Mother because through the foggy window, I saw her approach the door and talk to the Nurse and Counselor before coming to get me. There was sadness in her eyes when she kneeled in front of me and hugged me, I got to go home early that day and as an extra treat, she stopped and we got ice cream too.

When we got home, that was when the fight erupted. I could hear my Stepdad and Mom screaming at each other. My young mind didn't understand much of what was happening, but she had been scared she was going to lose us since another investigation was coming. He had yelled back that it had been a punishment well deserved, I had been playing in my room instead of cleaning it. He had said the school was too sensitive and he should be able to punish as he saw fit.

My Mother used to tell us how different our Stepdad was when they had first met. I never saw it, to me he was always evil with yellow teeth and thin black hair. Apparently, he had changed when he had suffered a work injury that had him contained to the bed, addicted to Marlboro cigarettes and painkillers. This often resulted in him yelling at us to get items for him and also punishing us when we failed to do a task promptly. His punishments differed based on the crime, but the belt was his favorite. We often knew it was coming when his eyes hardened and his jaw clenched and he would grab us by the arm or hair and tell us to pick out the belt that he would use for the whipping. I had foolishly picked a thin one which I thought would hurt less, but since he often raised it high over the head, the pain was harder.

They were still yelling at each other when I hid in my room with a blanket over my head. I was convinced he would come in with fire in his eyes and his stern jaw, to carry out another punishment for getting caught. He never came, and it felt like hours later when the yells quieted down and I felt brave enough to poke my head out. It was too quiet and I was worried about leaving my room, but I was getting antsy so I picked up a book. It happened to be the first book in the Series of Unfortunate Events, "The Bad Beginning". I had gotten it for Christmas from a family member and had nonchalantly added it to my bookcase.

I started reading it, and before I knew it, the room had melted away and I was there on the beach - I was on an adventure and running away from Count Olaf. I got shaken out of the book when my sisters came home and wanted to know why I was home already and what had happened. It was a brief moment away, but I had become addicted to that feeling. The adventures that took me away from the pain and screaming. The promise of something great that could happen, just hidden inside words.

Many years later, a therapist would explain that it was good that I had discovered books then; as too often children turn to other dangerous modes of escape. I had been bullied by someone who should have been a protective, parental character in my developmental years, but she had told me that I had found a healthy and therapeutic retreat.

As a child, I had never seen books as a means of escape, but as a door into another world. Like my superpower, walking through the wardrobe into another world, another person. Someone who was maybe braver, smarter, or louder than me. Someone who reminded me that everyone has a story, and everyone has hardships, but it is the next chapter and how you use yours that matters.

My addiction to books started at a young age, but I truly believe they made me the person that I am today. I learned that kindness is the best way to respond to anyone, even if they lash out, as they may be dealing with something hard in their own life.

I learned to read between the lines and understand the meaning behind a sad smile and the need for a period. I read about heroes and villains and the rise and fall of both. I got to travel the world and see dragons and castles.

I would shake my head at the movies that had tried to live up to my vivid imagination. I became best friends with the school librarians and spent my time in the library, coming to school earlier and leaving later, to avoid the chaos that lived in my home.

To this day, books offer comfort. A return to a best friend and getting lost in a new world. It always amazes me that disconcerting feeling you get when you finish a good book and you have to spend a couple of minutes returning to reality.

This is your daily reminder to rise above the bad times. To take something meant to break you and turn it into your best asset. You are inspiring, loved, and worthy of great things. Everyone's story is different, but you hold the pen. Write the best next chapter.