The last several years of my life have revolved, rather involuntarily, around my mental health. Around trying to identify the major issues I face, the nuances of such, and more exhaustingly, on how to overcome these hurdles.
Like many, I find literature to be an escape – one through which I can pour myself into the eyes and the world of the characters. Looking through my bookshelf recently for something to read, I was suddenly met with the realisation that in the last year and a half I had only bought and read two fiction books – the rest non-fiction and predominantly self-help. I was stunned. Whilst I knew that I was looking for ways to better my situation and seek help in its many forms, I had not realised that I had actively, and almost solely, resorted to my non-judgemental paperback pal.
Some of the books I had sourced myself, from stellar reviews and recommendations, others had been gifted to me – a peace offering during uncertain times. It was then that I remembered I had hidden more of these books at the top of my wardrobe, out of sight and out of mind. Such a bold move would suggest overcoming my illnesses, however this was not the case – I simply needed more space for my next team of paper therapists and guides. When re-reading the titles and blurbs of the books I had read, I was greeted with that spark of motivation you get when you hear an inspirational speech for the first time, or resonate with song lyrics – like it was written just for you.
The most recent foray in the world of non-fiction had left me bawling at every page. Recommended to me by tutors for two separate subjects, I knew I had to read it. It was a series of essays from Australian poet and essayist Fiona Wright. It discussed topics and themes relevant to my assignments, and – unbeknownst to my tutors – to me. I felt as though each page stripped back a layer of skin, revealing my innermost thoughts, fears, and desires. It was like looking in a paper mirror. I was embarrassed, shocked; yet somehow relieved. I saw that my ways of thinking and comparisons to others were not inherent to me, but to many. I felt as though I lost my identity but was confirmed as myself all at once.
I had only ever felt like this with a piece of non-fiction once before, when reading Bri Lee’s Beauty. Once again, I had been exposed and was affronted yet intrigued. Women that I had idealised and looked up to for their intelligence, humour, rigour and brutal honesty, had the same irrational thoughts, detrimental desires and luring rituals as me. Not only was it empowering to read of their stories of illness and triumph, it was eye-opening to see how easily we stereotype mental illness, even when suffering with it ourselves.
So whilst we re-enter lockdown, of both our bodies and our minds, I will seek refuge where I always have – in the yellowed embrace of the pages of my literary gurus and motivational mentors. And this time, I won’t be so shocked when I see my reflection staring back at me.
Hannah Kammerhofer is currently studying a Masters of Creative Writing, Publishing and Editing. With a BA in psychology and history, believed to be the world's most useless degree, Hannah has found ways to integrate it into her everyday life; she is always in her head and living in the past.