Fiction was my best friend as a child, but it’s a blessing and a curse at the same time...

I read my first novel in 3rd grade. It was a thriller/mystery. Reading as a hobby has been in my family for at least 2 generations now. In fact, my 2 siblings and I have inherited the exact taste in genre as my father!

Our school library only lent books to students in grade 6 and above. But since I had an elder sister with the very same hobby, I got an access to a huge collection of fiction books, way more early than the other kids.

Scholastic book fairs became sorta religious for us. We even borrowed unusual number of books from our friends who didn’t like reading much.

And the only stall we visited in our small town’s annual trade fair was: the book stall. Where else could you find a plethora of second-hand books at such cheap rates?

About a decade back.. my sister, brother and I wanted to place an online order for a few books from our favourite author that the three of us had been waiting to lay our hands on since ages! Mom and dad asked us to wait til the finals got over. But we couldn’t wait...

So we searched for pirated copies on the internet. We then sneaked into dad’s office and printed 3 novels that day! We got a big-ass lecture and (well-deserved) verbal thrashing for wasting so much paper.

My favourite author, Sir only-wrote-18-books-and-passed-away became a god-sent for an introvert child like me, who spent almost no outdoor time as an adolescent.

All of his books had a strong female protagonist as the lead character. These books took me to places and times that I had only read about in History and Geography books. The insane amount of detailing when it came to human psychology used to make me gasp with surprise

Unlike most kids, by the time I was in 9th grade, I knew what Multiple Personality Disorder was. I never gave another genres a serious try. They weren’t just worth it after I’d swam in the murder-mystery-fiction waters.

I always had my head in the clouds growing up, living in a parallel universe. I’d be sitting in the school bus dreaming about going to a school, very different than mine. Where there was sub-par infrastructure and much more cooler people around.

I wouldn’t call it all bad, because at the very young age of 9 years, I had planned a novel with my two best friends. We divided the tasks: who would write it, who would be doing the illustrations, help us get it printed and distributed, and what not!

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While getting over my very first SO after a non-consensual breakup… every time I had an emotional outbreak and felt like reaching out, fiction helped me become strong and not do it. It took a lot of self-control… almost to the brink of insanity. I’d tell myself that he’s dead, so I can’t do it.

Planned a funeral in my head and everything. Crazy, right? I would not recommend it, even though back then it helped me not step back into a dangerous territory.

Confusing fiction with reality subconsciously became an ugly habit overtime. Every time I was scared of trying something new, I’d tell myself that I do not necessarily need to indulge in it, because life can go on without any possibility of me landing in a similar situation.

I am aware about this habit today, and it still creates problems for me sometimes. Running away from reality only makes acceptance difficult. It’s delusional. And it’s a lot of work to get my brain off that track even when I know I’m doing it.

Have you been in my shoes? If so, when did you realise you were doing it, and how did you get rid of it? Let me know in the comments below! :)

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