Veronica Henry

So not being able to read was almost like not being able to breathe. Or losing a sense. Books were my world. Reading was my raison d’être. And this was at a time when I needed the escape of fictional worlds more than anything. My source of comfort had abandoned me in my darkest hour. Every time I tried to indulge, my eyes glazed over and my mind wandered. No character or plot or description captured my imagination. My brain felt full of sawdust. It was intensely claustrophobic, and I panicked that something awful had happened inside my brain—perhaps some neural pathways had snapped and I would never be able to read again.

I have since discovered I am not alone, and that the phenomenon is not uncommon. Grief, bereavement, stress, trauma: they can all impact on concentration, leaving even the most passionate of readers unable to engage despite repeated attempts.

Having never understood people who said they didn’t like reading, I suddenly empathized. It held no appeal. It was tedious torture. Like trying to eat a slice of dry, stale bread with no butter.

http://lithub.com/i-couldnt-read-while-grieving-until-i-found-these-books/