Letter to My E-Reader

My dearest e-reader,

I am writing this letter with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes. It is a letter I do not want to write, but one that I need to write. I need to write it for myself, for healing and recovery.

I want to thank you for everything you’ve meant to me. I bought you—though it was actually your older brother—in 2015, when I had too much cramping and pain in my fingers to hold books anymore. My body had finally shut down, after years of pushing myself too hard, and I couldn’t even hold a book anymore. Then you came along, my dearly beloved Kobo. You were there for me. You gave me hundreds of books into which I could always escape. And escape I did. Back then, I only read chick lit—lighthearted romantic novels that let me dream of a relationship I didn’t have myself. I was unhappy in my own relationship, but those books gave me what I so desperately longed for. And they made life more bearable and simpler because of that. Every now and then I’d read a self-help book, but that was too confrontational and too painful, so I didn’t do that very often. You gave me what I needed—namely, relaxation—and for that I will always be grateful to you.

When I was admitted as an outpatient to a psychiatric hospital in 2020 and received therapy three days a week for a year, I was advised not to read self-help books. That wasn’t a big problem for me; after all, you had plenty of other books to offer. Still, even the chick-lit wasn’t an option anymore. Fortunately, not long after, my spiritual awakening took place, and I found God. And guess what? My Kobo Plus account turned out to have hundreds—or even thousands?—of Christian books. You gave me as many theological books as I wanted, and man, did I want them! I read an insane number of them. It was my go-to, my safe haven, my way of escaping from the world with all its fears and dangers. In those books, even more than in the chick lit, I could truly lose myself. Lose myself in God, dwell in His love. But alas, good things don’t last. The more Christian books I read, the more I tried to understand God with my head. Knowledge is the solution, or so it seemed. If only I could understand the Bible, if only I could understand God, then I would find inner peace. So I fled more and more. Yet I didn’t see it as an escape. It felt good, and it felt right. Let the world keep spinning. You, God, and I—we’ll just distance ourselves from it all.

And then the theological books got boring. Yet another book on the Acts of the Apostles, on the Letter to the Romans, on the Sermon on the Mount. Because I felt I was spiritually strong enough, I began exploring the world of self-help books. Wow, this was GOOD! So much wisdom from so many people! If I could glean just a little bit of wisdom from each book, “then I’d be there.” How to meditate, how to slow down, how to live in tune with the seasons, ... But books on trauma, burnout, and chronic pain also made the rounds.You gave them all to me. And while I thought you were a huge treasure chest where I could go treasure hunting without limits, you were actually like a trash can, and I was like a vagrant. Me looking for an edible scrap, you offering me half-gnawed chicken bones. It seemed nourishing, but it wasn’t. It was rotten. It polluted and destroyed my soul, book by book, page by page. Because what every book, both Christian and secular, unconsciously told me was: “I have a monopoly on the truth, and you don’t, and you need my Great Opinion to survive emotionally.”

I remember my first real spiritual low point in this, almost a year ago now. I was away for a weekend with my Twelve Step fellowship, couldn’t sleep at night, and sought refuge in you and yet another self-help book. I fell asleep crying and woke up feeling empty. I heard people laughing and talking in the hallway, and I lay on my bed, too exhausted to lift my head off the pillow. After about half an hour, I forced myself to get up, brush my teeth, eat something, and go to a meeting. That meeting had already been going on for a while, and I just walked in, empty and crying, and sat down in a chair. I just heard the speaker say that if we don’t want to relapse into our addiction, we have to stay away from our drug. He compared it to a slide at the playground. Once you’re standing at the slide and looking down, it looks really fun. But once you’re on it, you have no choice but to let yourself slide all the way down. Going back up isn’t an option anymore; you’re not strong enough for that. The best thing you can do is simply stay away from the slide—and the entire playground all together—. If that wasn’t God speaking to me, then I wouldn’t know what was! I just had to stay away from the self-help books; suddenly it was as clear as day! During the Q&A, I shared my recent experience—about the emptiness caused by the self-help books, and how ashamed I was of it. And miraculously, I saw many nodding heads: people understood me! After the meeting, several fellows came up to me to say how much they recognized themselves in my sharing. God isn’t in those books; God is in me. The Truth is in me. And so: farewell self-help books.

Although. What you offered was vast and tempting, and sometimes I thought I could handle it. But I never could. Yet every time I read something good, whenever there was a revelation, I thought it was worth it. A little like an alcoholic who is almost constantly miserable, but then experiences that one amazing night and believes it was the alcohol that gave it to him, and not life.

The past year was a battle with books. I can’t call it anything else. There was no brake on it either. I had dozens (hundreds?) of books stored up in you, and I wanted to read them all. I needed more and more and was never satisfied. At the same time, it did relax me. In the moment, it felt really good, but the hours afterward were spiritually terrible. Empty. Drained. And so I read more. Again, just like the alcoholic who drinks more to feel better. It works, until it doesn’t work anymore.

Today, it’s not working anymore. I’ve hit rock bottom. Last Friday, I read my very last book on you: the (apocryphal) Gospel of Thomas, in which Jesus’ sayings left my soul in turmoil—and I mean that in the most positive way possible. Wow, this was it! The high of all highs. I had found it, the Holy Grail. For weren’t these, after all, the words of Jesus Himself? The emptiness the day after was terrible. I have rarely felt more spiritually empty in my life than I did last weekend. And I knew: Game Over. Done, over and out, finished.

I've put you away in a box. You, my dear e-reader. My refuge, my safe haven, my place of rest. You who gave me so much. I always had you with me, wherever I went. In the doctor’s waiting room, on the train, at the IKEA return counter while waiting, during weekend getaways, when I went for a walk in the park and wanted to read on a bench for a bit… You were my everything, and at the same time, almost my downfall. I tried every kind of book, and they all took me further away from myself. Because, once again, the Truth lies within me. With every book I read, I believed that someone else knew better than I did, and that simply isn’t true.

I cried when I put you away last week. And I cried when I moved all my other books from the living room into that same box, and returned the twenty or so books from the library (twenty!) that were lying here. But I also felt relieved: it was the right thing to do. Wow, imagine—that I wouldn’t feel like a puppet anymore, controlled by ten different opinions and authors. Imagine that! I knew it was right. But that alone doesn’t bring peace. Stop any addiction or spiritually destructive behavior, and for the first few days you feel miserable. You descend into the depths of hell. Last weekend and this past Monday, I was seriously at odds with myself. And suddenly, all sorts of things came to the surface that I could no longer numb with books: fear, resentment, and anger. But then came the calm. That oh-so-beautiful peace and calm I was actually searching for. The answer lay within me, not in you.

On the day before Easter, I wonder if this isn’t the true Easter story. Could this be what God intended? To die to yourself by doing His will, and then—just like Jesus—to remain in the tomb for a few days and rise again afterward? I can hardly imagine that God had Jesus born, die, and rise again just to give us a new religion. A new religion with rules, dogmas, and laws. With religious obligations, rituals, and gestures. After all, didn’t the Jews already have enough of those? The Law of Moses nearly crushed them with “musts,” and no one came any closer to the Father because of it. I wonder, didn’t Jesus simply set an example for us? 'Do as I do: follow the Father, even if it brings you fear and sorrow, and TRUST. Trust in Him, trust in His goodness and guidance. And if you do that, you will rise, just like Me. You will be born again. Just like Me, you will always carry your stigmata with you, but they no longer have to define you. You are free now.'

Dearest e-reader, I am free now. A full week without you, without books. A full week of returning to myself, letting my fears bubble up and being transformed by God. And you know what? It’s okay. It’s really okay. I thank you with all my heart for everything you’ve given me all these years. You were there for me when I needed you, but today I’m letting you go. After all, a child also goes from milk to fruit puree and eventually to solid food, doesn’t it?

I hope you find a new home soon. I cried when I put you up for sale online, but it’s okay. A new beginning, a new Nathalie. I hope you, too, can make a fresh start soon and make someone else very happy, because you deserve it.

With love,