Reading Is Fund...uh...

So I'm not reading very much. Allow me to amend that: I'm not reading prose very much. I'm reading piles of comic books, but, contrary to what people tell me, that doesn't feel like reading. That's (generally) fun, and heavily visual.

This isn't a new thing; ever since AmeriCorps ended, and when I moved into an apartment by myself, I haven't been reading many books. Partly this has to do with the mechanics of living alone for the first time in my life: I suddenly wasn't living with anyone who occasionally annoyed me, nor did I feel the need to retreat to my room with a book to try to escape anything. Also, there is something reassuring about the noise of the television, giving you the illusion that you're not alone. I've started many books, but have not been compelled to continue reading, so I don't.

In some ways, it's gotten better since I've moved to Virginia: I suddenly have a library system's worth of books to choose from. In Florida, particularly during the dark says of the teaching job from Hell, and the subsequent employment-free months, I just wasn't interested in taking time out to curl up with a good book. I would check books out of the library, but then not only didn't I finish them -- in most cases, I never even started them.

Since I've got to Virginia, I have been reading more graphic novels, rather than watching the TV, and I've found that short stories work pretty well for me. Which, in some ways, distresses me more: it depresses me that I can't even muster the attention span to read one whole novel. But, at the same time I haven't found any books that I have just felt compelled to read.

I guess my attention span is what I'm really concerned about. In high school, I was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. I don't talk about it much, partly because it's embarrassing, not to mention a bit controversial, but also because it's not that big a deal. I have been taking medication for it since then, which frequently became a hassle as I moved or was impoverished or was insurance-free. But when I came to Virginia, I had enough medication for one month, and then I was on my own. I chose to discontinue medication, partly out of financial concerns, but also because I decided enough was enough, and I wanted to see how I did without it. That was a little scary.

As a result, February was a long month for me. It wasn't a matter of being addicted to the medication, at least from a physical standpoint: I didn't see any bats swooping down at me or nothin'. No tremors or nightsweats. It's just that you begin to rely on the medication, and you're used to how you feel on it. Off of it, periods of time stretch out before you, interminable and overwhelming. And that first month, I was just astounded that I could function at all, simply because I had become convinced that the medication had been the key to whatever limited success I have had, and that the medication had allowed me to get my degrees. Basically, I thought that something in the medication changed me into someone who could do things. I dunno, it's hard to explain without making it sound more sordid and desperate than it is.

But here I am, still employed -- my lapses in self-esteem were always a problem, medicated or not -- having made my choice to not pursue treatment once I got here. The only thing that I've lost is that desire to read novels. And the thing is that, I dunno where the problem stems from. Am I not able to maintain the concentration? And if so, is that because the last psychiatrist I saw told me that if I really had ADD, I wouldn't be able to read any book? Am I trying to live down to those expectations, or maybe I just haven't been looking at the right books?


You will, perhaps, notice that my ability to craft paragraphs that make any sense has apparently been lost as well. This post isn't really about anything; I guess I'm just trying to figure out where my head's at. What better place to do that than in a publicly-posted blog?

NOTE: I actually wrote this a couple of months ago, and since then I have read two books: Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Phillips -- I've always been attracted to Greek mythology, esp. when transplanted into the modern world -- and Christopher Moore's Lamb: the Gospel according to Biff, Christ's childhood pal, which had the benefit of reminding me a little of Terry Pratchett, and also of capitalizing on my idea to write about Jesus' teenaged years. I myself would have made Jesus a Boy Detective, but that's just me. So basically I need to start reading funny novels. Suggestions are welcome.