Post Book Depression

I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy. I know — they’re for teenagers, not seriously studious college students. In my defense, I read the first book in my Intro to the Study of Lit class this spring, and I really wanted to continue. It was well worth the two days I spent reading each book; Suzanne Collins wove together a great series, mixing together action, romance, and revolution in several works of post-apocalyptic teen fiction. One could easily dissect the series to study the human condition and human nature, the rise and fall of government…let me cut myself before I turn grotesquely academic. I’m not writing this to blabber on about Collins’ adeptness as a writer, especially compared to other adolescent novelists though (I’m looking at you Stephenie Meyer).

Much of my childhood was spent reading books; I averaged a book a day throughout middle school. Piling on extracurriculars in high school drastically cut into my reading time, but I still loved books. College is much more demanding, with required reading taking priority over leisure. So when this summer offered me a grace period between schoolwork and a new internship, I seized the month of June to indulge in this old yet familiar past time. I discovered one of the more terrible effects of this soon enough.

You see, after devouring a particularly exciting or poignant book, I am overcome with despair upon reading the last page. Sometimes, I wonder why I did not bother to relish the book; however, the idea is truly impossible. I disregard hunger, thirst, and fatigue to finish a book. If I am in the middle of a story, nothing and no one can interrupt its completion. Nevertheless, reading comes with pain for me; the world the writer has created and that I have further molded into my imagination has served its purpose. The characters I have pictured in my mind and have captured my admiration, respect, or love…their fates are decided and they disappear too. This world I devoted hours to holds no more meaning after the last page is turned. My head spins, my heart feels heavy. I experience what others apparently call, “post book depression”.

My imagination is extremely vivid. Monsters infiltrated my nightmares as a kid, not because of scary movies I watched, but the stories I had read before bedtime. I seldom speak to anyone on car trips, as I spend hours creating fantasies in my mind. My eyes glaze over in what seems to be boredom; however, I can never be bored. I am not a fascinating person, nor do I have a mesmerizing mind. Regardless, I always know that if others cannot “entertain me”, so to speak, I will be fine on my own. My wild imagination translates into elaborate visual depictions of novels — almost like movies in my mind. I’ve molded this story into perfection…in my eyes. I can no longer manipulate it into its desirable form. The book is over, and it is time to move on.

…which might explain why I “suffer” from this post book depression. It’s time to move on, into a world where I have little control. No longer can I admire the characteristics of the protagonists, forgetting that these qualities I covet may also be ones I lack. I cannot lose myself in their flaws, which often match my own. I must sink back into my day to day realities, rather than focus on the trials and tribulations on the page. My life is not dreadful; perhaps it is just dreadfully boring. I do enjoy “normal” leisure activities, but I crave the kind of excitement that a night of bowling cannot supply. It’s why being a field reporter is so appallingly appealing to me; I want to experience the action of an event, hear the sounds and see the sights of it all. I can’t explain the thrill I get from the idea of such things…without having people question my sanity, at least. Even if the book is not so “action packed”, it often will make me reflect on who I am and what I’ve done with my life.

It can bog me down, but I’ll inevitably bounce back. My post book depression shows me how little control I have, taunts my thirst for adventure, and mocks my lack of accomplishment, yes. At the same time, it inspires me to take the reins. I may not be a part of a great work of fiction, but maybe someday, my life will be a great story of its own.