The Struggle to Read

Exploring reasons why reading is sometimes so difficult for survivors.

The struggle to read books is not particular to my story and is often mentioned by other survivors when they feel the need to apologize for not reading my books. There is no shame in not being able to do what we cannot do. If reading is one of your struggles, be proud you are reading this!

The following article explains my recent processing of an increasingly problematic struggle with reading. It was frustrating because there had never been a time when I had this much free time to read. While your reasons for struggling with reading may be different, I hope my sharing will provide insights that may help you on your journey.

Photo by Jaredd Craig on Unsplash

The Struggle to Read

I was nineteen, a college sophomore enrolled in a philosophy course. A recurring memory that had little context for most of my life was standing at the library reference desk, staring at books placed on reserve by the course professor. I needed to choose a book and write a paper due the following week. I was frozen, unable to read the titles or pick a book. I have always known that I left the library and withdrew from the class because I could not choose a book that day.

Fifty-plus years later, my struggle with reading has become increasingly difficult. What? Yes, I have a PhD. Yes, I have gleaned massive amounts of wisdom from the writings of other authors. Yes, I read Substack articles and copious other resources. In truth, I realize I have developed innumerable workarounds for what got stuck inside me while standing at that reference desk. And yes, for some reason, those strategies were all failing—and I asked for help.

EMDR (See What is EMDR?) always helps me get under the protective cover stories and access the complete memory—including the emotions. The following is what I remembered as I returned to the memory of standing at the reference desk.

“Are you going to choose a book?” the voice behind me asked. Shaking myself free from my frozen state, I reached out, picked a book, and set it down in front of me. Once I did this, my fellow student chose another book and left. The world was spinning around me as I opened the book and was instantly consumed by a wave of nausea.

Nausea.

It makes sense that the past two months watching Scott struggle with life-altering nausea would shake this part of the memory loose. It seems that my workarounds for the sensation of nausea whenever I open a book had reached their expiration date—and the memory was surfacing. As trauma memories will, it had become associated with all forms of reading books. So unfortunate.

I have compassion for my trauma-impacted nineteen-year-old self. My world was upside down, and I had no way to understand the PTSD symptoms that overwhelmed me at every turn. I was desperately trying to fight through pathological exhaustion and constant waves of nausea and complete the assignment. All of this got stuck in my body at that reference desk.

A very kind reference librarian tried to assist me. I explained that I wasn’t feeling well and left. The next day, I withdrew from the class, knowing the paper would cause me to fail and lose my California State scholarship. It makes sense that during thirty-plus years of teaching at the college level, I never weighted any assignment so heavily that a student would fail the entire class by not completing it.

The important question I was asked after processing this memory was this: “Janyne, what did you come to believe about yourself as the result of this?”

I knew the answer immediately. “That I was a fake, an imposter.” All the brilliant ways I managed to excel in academia felt like I had merely conned my way to a PhD. I realize now that everything was so much harder than it needed to be.

What saved me was my ability to write. The higher I climbed on the academic ladder, the more dependent my grades were on writing. My ability to write exemplary essay answers was a tool in my survival toolbox that I never recognized as a gift. It compensated for my very real struggles with reading that began that day at the reference desk.

There are always many layers to the struggles survivors face. Every layer is as unique as the person who carries the story. Often, the things that block our healing are seemingly inexplicable. Healing often makes things worse before it gets better. This has been consistently true over the past ten years. Yet, it always surprises me—finding myself challenged by reading certainly did.

All during the session, I was very much the age of that nineteen-year-old kid. That is how trauma works. We get stuck at the age when the trauma occurred unless it is processed. When memories begin surfacing, they drag us back to all the emotional distress. This memory, I realize, had been trying to surface for some time. My younger self needed to be released from the burden of patching together strategies to do what needed to be done with a very traumatized brain. She was not a fake; she was brilliant. She also needed to set down the shame she felt when someone asked, “Have you read [fill in the blank with hundreds of books]?

At the end of the session, I accepted that people do not care for me, read my books, or follow me here on Substack because of what I read but because of my writing. The absolute astonishment I felt when I said this felt like I had solved the world’s greatest problem. Reading does make me a better writer, but it isn’t the air I breathe.

Then I said, “You know, most of the time when I manage to read, I don’t get far because it gives me an idea for writing. Reading is a launch pad for writing—not an end in and of itself.”

That is likely why I have continued to enjoy reading books to provide endorsements—I read with the end goal of writing. Come to think of it, this is probably why I never minded book reports—unless they were oral.

If I could have chosen and read a book from the reference desk, it would have naturally turned into a paper—because I am a writer. It seems that the impact of trauma separated reading from writing. If this is the case, then the solution must blend the two back together again.

But there was one more thing that needed processing. Because of what occurred that day at the reference desk that hindered my reading along with all the textbooks I needed to read as a professor and in my academic endeavors, and then in my work to understand trauma, I have rarely chosen books without a specific purpose. What would I choose?

Two days later, I felt myself standing at the reference desk, less traumatized but still stuck with the choices in front of me. I took my younger self by the hand and said, “The entire library is yours to choose from.” She has been wandering in the stacks ever since.

In a few weeks, I will begin a new series on Wednesdays with the results of my wanderings. I don’t know exactly how that will look, but it feels like freedom. It feels like returning to a time before that day when reading grounded me and kept the world from spinning out of control. I look forward to returning to the joy of reading—anything I choose— for the sake of writing!

Side Note: Did you know Serendipity in the Stacks is a thing?

“The pursuit of serendipity in the stacks can be interpreted as an act of symbolic resistance and as an attempt to recapture a sense of the freedom and mystery that is available in less networked information environments.” (Source)

I am off to delve into symbolic resistance and recapture the freedom and mystery of serendipity in the stacks.