Pressin' On

     Good morning everyone, I am angsty today;  I'm halfway through literally an entire week at work, plus I lost some of my blog notes.

     I am displeased, to say the least.

     But I must press on or lose my head, and I'd like to avoid the latter.  So here, for your education, is a new kind of post.  I call it Words I Don't Know.

     I've been reading a book by Kerry Cohen, and it's incredible.  I'm almost done with it, so expect something on that soon.  Anyway, while reading this excellent book, I came across this word:


                                                     anodyne

 



     I have no idea what this word means, but it interests me.  It has almost a clean, sterile look to it.  It sounds like some type of medicine, and given the context it could be some sort of cleansing agent.  Here is what dictionary.com tells me about it:

     a medicine that relieves or allays pain. 


     Something that relieves pain.  For those who have known me for a good length of time, it's obvious without being said that books are my anodyne.  They have always been my escape, my solace, my Novocain.  I find comfort in pages more than any other place.

     It's been this way since I was young.  I didn't grow up in a happy home; my parents divorced sometime before my memories begin, and not long after that my mother remarried.  My stepfather is not a loving person.  He's always been hard, harsh.  In our home, 'parenting' was just yelling and spanking over every little infraction.  It was rare that anyone would explain to me exactly why my crime was wrong.  I was just told that it was and I must be punished.

     I must say, for the sake of my mother, that things weren't all bad; there were brief moments where we felt like a family, where we liked each other and could get along and joke and tease for awhile.  But the teasing always went too far, for I was what is considered 'too sensitive'.  I was an annoying, needy parasite.  I was difficult.

     I hid in my room often.  Just me and my books, it felt safe.  Books don't tease, they don't judge or push or yell or tell you how worthless you are.  They always have time for you.  In my books, I was not me. I could be anyone:  Anne of Green Gables, one of the Babysitter's Club, Nancy Drew... anyone.  I would ignore my homework, skip meals, give up sleep just to read.

     Even now, I turn to books.  Sometimes I prefer them to people.  I've come out of my shell, but I still need the pages, the text.  I have over 200 books, and that's not enough.  I'll always want more.

     What's your anodyne?