[image description: a crowded bookshelf dimly lit with one swinging light from above.]

So far, 2020 hasn’t been what I’d hoped for.

I won’t burden you with the litany of woe that started mid-February and only seems to be ramping up, but suffice it to say that I took a couple of mental health days off from work to do a human version of “have you tried turning it off and on again?”

Being a book nerd, that means alternating reading and sleeping and hardly getting out of bed. (It’s not lost on me that many people don’t get mental health days off from work, though I believe everyone should. If you’re reading this and verging on burnout, I encourage you to ask your employer for a mental health day or two. The worst they could say is no.)

I’ve been leaning toward genres that encourage escapism to manage the stress, so I’ve been burning through all the comics and romance novels I can get my hands on. But I’d also been wanting to read Threads of Life: A History of the World Through the Eye of a Needle by Clare Hunter, which is a social, cultural, political, and economic history of sewing. I do embroidery and decorative mending (usually with an audiobook playing) so it sounded right up my alley. And what better time to read it than when I’ve got a few days to rest and reset?

It seems silly writing this now, but what I neglected to factor in is that no one takes multiple mental health days in a row because they’re doing well. My anxiety and depression have been exacerbated by repeated stress in multiple areas of my life, which affects my focus and ability to be present. In a word, I’m suffering from burnout.

At one point while reading Threads of Life, which is well written and thoroughly researched, I had a mild panic attack. I’ll never be able to remember all these details––which, true to the tagline, is a history of the world through sewing, spanning dozens of cultures, countries, and reasons for the art and craft of needlework––even though I’d really like to.

I talked myself down from the panic by reminding myself that I don’t have to memorize the book to benefit from it. I can simply allow it to bring me joy through the act of reading and trust that whatever details miss me are the ones I’m not ready to take in and trust that the details that stick with me are the ones I’m meant to know. Also that there’s no rule saying I can’t re-read the book at a later time, perhaps when the current stressors in my life aren’t weighing quite so heavily on me.

It’s endlessly fascinating to me how quickly I’m prone to panic and how fast my rationality devolves when stress exacerbates my anxiety and depression. Even as I write this, I’m thinking, “Well, duh, Mandy. Your blog readers know this shit already because they’re not total doofuses and if they have similar mental health struggles they’re properly medicated and are managing perfectly fine, thankyouverymuch.”

But then I think to myself that if I’m feeling this way, maybe others are too. Maybe other readers are stressed under the burden of healthcare and capitalism and burnout and aren’t able to enjoy this hobby as much as they used to before things got this rough. If that’s you, please know you’re not alone and that whatever reading you do or don’t do during this time is always enough.

Take care of yourselves, look out for each other, seek joy where you can, stay in bed for a few days if you need to, stock up on supplies without hoarding, check on your elderly and disabled friends and neighbors, tip your delivery drivers extra, support the Asian-owned businesses in your area, and wash your damn hands.

Bookishly and lovingly yours,

Mandy