“Listen, I’m the freak. I’m the weirdo. I’m the troublemaker. I start fights. I let people down. Don’t make Finch mad, whatever you do. Oh, there he goes again, in one of his moods. Moody Finch. Angry Finch. Unpredictable Finch. Crazy Finch. But I’m not a compilation of symptoms. Not a casualty of shitty parents and an even shittier chemical makeup. Not a problem. Not a diagnosis. Not an illness. Not something to be rescued. I’m a person.”
There is this lady on the train - I see her most mornings, who is almost always with a book in her hand. She’s around…40 years old, maybe? The really cool thing is that she reads YA (this morning, she was reading a book in the Septimus Heap series, I saw her reading Holes a while ago). And she is so chill about it, just enjoying her book, reading literally until the train has stopped in the station. And I think that’s fantastic, because we’re so hell bent on labeling everything in our lives, including things related to reading (you’re an adult, so you should read only adult books, you should be reading more classics, you should not read things that are simpler), that we’re forgetting that we’re supposed to do whatever makes us happy. And if reading YA/children’s literature/middle grade makes us happy, we should just do it.
And when you see those good things—and I promise you, there are so many good things—they’re going to be so much brighter for you than they are for other people, just like the abyss always seems deeper and bigger when you stare at it. If you stick it out, it’s all going to feel worth it in the end. Every moment you live, every darkness you face, they’ll all feel worth it when you’re staring light in the face.