I Can't Read

Not Now

I’m supposed to read stuff, aren’t I? Isn’t that what we do here?

I’m supposed to dive in, gobble it up, and have a big, meaningful, important response.

While “book girly” tote bags and bumper stickers have always grossed me out, on some level I guess I identify as a “reader.” I’m big on books. I even make them for a living. If I’m not reading—books or essays or poems—and I’m not thinking or talking about things I’ve read, then what even am I??

After a series of disruptive events early this year, an onslaught of tiny ruptures and losses, I’ve made a startling discovery about myself: I can’t read.

Rather, I should say that I can’t read right now.

How It Feels

I scroll through my lovely notes feed here on Substack and marvel at photos of Ireland or at works of art, or my mind quickly soaks up the occasional quote or joke. In low-stakes scrolling like this I’m fairly delighted, distracted from the stresses I’ve recently been through. Sometimes I stumble on little gems that guide me to a way through the minefield of just living.

But when I click on an enticing headline and am brought to a complete post—you know, full of WORDS—I find myself staring at the opening of the essay with a feeling of I can’t.

Faced with the act of reading these days, I feel something I’ve never felt before in my life: an intellectual incapacitation, a total void of willingness to engage. Profoundly numb, I can’t even begin to read. With a piece of writing in front of me, I feel like I’m standing at the foot of a treadmill with my running shoes on but the speed is already ramped up to level ten and there’s just no possible way for me to jump on without smashing my face.

My blob of a mind is, for now, especially repulsed by opinion and argument, even of the variety I otherwise tend to agree with, even on topics that interest me.

What Works

I’ve been spending a little time with Jung’s Undiscovered Self in bed every night, which is shocking because it’s heady as hell, but Jung’s language is gorgeous; something mystical sneaks onto every page, speaking straight past my mind and into my sensitive place. Jung’s refuge in magic soothes me.

I’ve also been able to slip into a couple of personal essays rich with honesty and feeling (like this from Jocelyn Lovelle and this from Erin Shetron), but if a piece of writing really asks me to think, analyze, or grapple with an intellectual argument, it’s not just a hard pass, it’s actually impossible. There is no there there, no safety, no soul.

Just after the shit had hit the fan in mid-January and my tears had worn through all my anger and self-pity, I repeatedly found myself lying in bed or on the floor or standing in the shower just staring and breathing and being. I’m not an expert on the nervous system, but I knew this was my body moving through grief, repairing itself, and protecting me from harm. I’m glad I didn’t push through it; rather I rode the ebb out and away from the world for a while—away from politics and drama, away from fighting to feel “normal” again, and away from my own intellect.

Jung talks about the “tasks” of life, how an individual has different assignments at different points in life. Today my task is not to muscle through in bondage to the version of myself that reads and talks and thinks. Instead, I’m called to stay in the hush, to listen, to wait, and to honor whatever mysterious thing is unfolding.

Maybe soon I’ll be able to read, think, and re-join the Big Debate ever-boiling in the world of the minds. But for now, it’s perfectly enough to be with my body in this moment—painting or collaging, standing in the shower holding my own belly, splashing my toes around, but not reading. Not that, not now.