I’m coming to the end of the book I’m reading, and I just know it’s going to make me sad. I really want to know what happens, but I’ll read a chapter and walk away thinking, “I’m not going to like how this ends.” I’ve already cried twice while reading this book. It’s a wonderful story. I’m so invested. Too invested. I know better.
I used to read a lot of complicated, dramatic fiction. Science fiction that would stretch the imagination. Mysteries that would challenge deductive reasoning. Suspense that would get the blood racing. But then my parents got sick and died within six months of each other. My oldest sibling became a paranoid schizophrenic and made it nearly impossible to cope. Made it impossible for my sister and me to properly grieve our loss, to process the sudden changes in our lives. Life became unreal. Reality became too much. Reading became about escape. I became a reader of romances. Happy endings. Always a happy ending. Distracting, sometimes humorous, sexy, clever…and not risky. Everything would turn out all right in the end. I really needed the happy endings.
It’s been three years since my parents died. Nearly as long since we sold our childhood home. My sister and I circled the wagons, became closer, survived. The nightmares are only occasional now. But I’m still reading the romances. The genre has expanded to mysteries and suspense. I’m even reading a series of futuristic romantic mysteries. But no matter what happens during the story, I know my main characters will survive and be together. Happy endings. I still need happy endings.
I picked up my current book at work. As I was flipping through it, there was a conversation near the beginning between a mother and daughter. It made me laugh. Humor between an eccentric mother and her pregnant, forty-year-old daughter and why they weren't friends on Facebook. I thought it might be a fun book to read. Too late, I realized it was a story fraught with disappointment, sadness, intolerance. Too late, I realized that I cared about these people and needed to finish their story. Because there was love in this story, too.
I’m so close to the end. I want the happy ending for them, for me. But I know I’m not going to get it. And somehow, the story of these fictional people will leave a hole in my heart. The knowledge that their problems are real and torment real people in the real world will increase the heartache. I know I have to finish the book, complete the journey, let the sadness roll over me. I’m not sorry that I read the book. I got a great deal out of it. Magical words, heartwarming acts, informative debates, pictures of the way the world should be, but isn’t. All of that will stay with me, and I will be richer for it. Perhaps a fair trade for the tears.
I may never give up the romances with their guaranteed happy endings. There are some great writers out there that can speak to the heart without breaking it. But maybe it’s time to risk more. There are hearts a great deal more scarred than mine that do. If I can see this story through, perhaps I can do it again. Maybe it will become easier next time to let the reality in. At least once in a while. Maybe.
