I am in my cozy, warm room. I am in the dark, surrounded by pillows and blankets. I am isolated in my hideout, closed off from the rest of my room by perpendicular bunk beds and a bureau. This area of my room is my special reading spot. The light trickles in through the rectangular entrance. The voices of neighborhood children playing outside seem to linger in the background.
I still have the taste of a chocolate cookie and vanilla frosting on my lips from my afternoon snack. A stack of seven books lay on the ground next to me. I pick up the book on the top of the pile, and slowly caress the flimsy cover. The bumpy texture of the title feels like home to me. I slowly open the cover and I am immediately hit with a whiff of the musty smell these books always have.
The pages are so soft; they almost feel magical. With the words, “Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much”, I am immersed in a miraculous world of witchcraft and wizardry.
Growing up, I spent countless hours tucked away in my bedroom reading. Besides reading the typical school assigned reading, the hundreds of books I borrowed from the public library, and the mountain of books I had stacked on my bedroom floor, I always went back to read one particular series. I would read the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling repeatedly, never growing tired of the stories.
I would imagine ways to relate to the characters, often pretending that I was a witch, too. I yearned to receive a letter when I was eleven years old that stated, in Minerva McGonagall’s magnificent script, “Dear Ms. Wholey, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry”. Of course, when I turned eleven, no such letter arrived.J. K. Rowling created a world that provided me with the childhood I had always dreamed of. She provided me with the friends, stories, and emotions most children acquire growing up.
Even though I was experiencing everything in my mind, the world was completely real to me. Reading the series provided me with an outlet in which I poured all of my emotions into. I became emotionally attached to the books because they got me through some of my toughest times. However, I was not immersing myself in the stories just to mask the pain, but also to sort through my emotions therapeutically
I could always rely on the books to be there for me. They never moved out of the dark, rectangular space I called my hideout. I would slip away from reality for a few hours every night. The series provided, and still provides, a magical shelter in which I could and can protect myself from my emotions.
