When Books Heal

How a book helped pull me out of a dark place … then gave me courage to write my own.

Guest post by Caitee Cooper

I’ve never been the depressive type.

Sure, I’ve had my moments, but by and large, I was a happy kid, a happy(ish) teen, a very happy college kid, and finally, the happy wife and partner of an equally happy entrepreneur. Aside from a few mild struggles with anxiety, I hadn’t had to confront many mental health issues—at least, not in a meaningful way. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely believed they were real. 

But I was equally certain mental illness wouldn’t ever happen to me.

In college, I studied psychology, hoping to eventually hire on with a practice that offered equine therapy. That train derailed, as most early-life plans do, but the lessons I learned from it stuck with me, altered me, changed the way I see the people around me. They imbued me with a desire to help people as much as I could—especially those who fought fights and nursed scars that no one ever saw. 

They weren’t, however, enough to help me recognize depression in myself. And about four years ago, that’s exactly what happened. 

If you’re a math person, you know that “four years ago” translates to “2020”—right as the COVID pandemic was hitting hard. We were all in lockdown, we were all scared for ourselves and our loved ones, and no one seemed to have any answers. 

But it wasn’t the pandemic that broke me. It wasn’t the uncertainty or the isolation. Nope.

It was having a baby in the middle of it all.

After my son was born, I became deeply distressed, emotional, and despondent. I didn’t want to eat, and even when the baby slept, I couldn’t sleep. There was so much to do; I could never make myself stop but I was dying for a break, dying to feel like a person again, to have enough autonomy to do something as simple and taken-for-granted as brush my teeth. And then I was tormented by thoughts of what a terrible mother I was for wanting to get away from my baby. Most mornings, I would wake up and not remember the day before because the stress was so intense.

My husband, parents, and in-laws knew something was wrong, but no one knew what to do about it. I slogged through eight months of that hell before my husband finally staged an intervention. Turns out, I’d sunk into postpartum depression that was so severe that… well, let’s just say the therapist who helped me was grateful no one was dead. 

Slowly, slowly, things started to turn around. I was getting help, realizing that it wasn’t my fault, bonding with my baby in a way I hadn’t been able to before. I could sleep (not enough, but more than I had been), I could remember things, and most importantly, I started to feel a tiny little flicker of interest in the things I used to enjoy.

It was around this time I met Kaladin. 

Yes, that Kaladin.

One day, my husband came home from work (in the actual office!), grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, and said “I found a book you really, really need to read.”

“What is it?” I asked.

His eyes lit up, and a big grin split his face. “It’s called The Way of Kings! It’s huge, but I’ve been reading it all week and I really think you’d love it. It’s. So. Good. One of my favorites ever, probably.”

I hadn’t read a book since before our baby arrived, so when he told me how gigantic The Way of Kings really was, I’ll admit I balked. But eventually, with some gentle coaxing (read: raving) and despite the novel’s size, I dove in.

And was hooked.

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It took me about five chapters to realize Kaladin—probably one of the toughest tough-guy characters of all time—was also fighting depression. Mine had faded to a dull roar at that point, but the pain was still fresh. I devoured that novel. There were moments when I cried, which no book had ever made me do before (and pre-kids, I read a lot of books.) 

I ended up reading the entire Stormlight series (that was out, anyway) within six weeks. While Kaladin’s journey was what pulled me in, so many of the other characters spoke to me—resonated with me in a way characters never had before—that I was stunned. I felt Shallan’s struggle in my bones. I cried with Dalinar as he faced his soul-scorching past and reckoned with his own darkness. I cheered for Navani as she finally got to explore talents and interests that she’d never been able to before, and my heart cracked for Renarin as he ached to find his place, to belong.

Honestly, they inspired me so much that I started to wonder if something was wrong with me. 

Again, I’d read a lot of books, but none had affected me as deeply as these. Looking back now, with the benefit of almost three years of healing, I think it was partially because I was able to feel for the first time in almost a year. Also, it was the first time I’d seen a struggle like mine (which I was still trying to wrap my head around having) portrayed so poignantly and with such compassion in a fantasy novel. And it’s also because Sanderson is an excellent writer; let’s not discount his talent here.

Fast forward about a year. While I wasn’t totally better, I had made significant progress. My baby was now a garrulous one-year-old who loved to be outside … and he had a brother on the way. I’d devoured more Sanderson books (and a whole bunch of others) and opened a painting studio for something to do during naptime.

And then, without warning, an old book idea I’d had almost a decade before barged into my head in the middle of the night and demanded that I write it. 

So, the next day, I got started (how do you argue with that?) I didn’t intend to publish it; I’d never published any fiction I’d ever written. In fact, I’d barely even shared my writing with anyone. (When I announced that I was publishing my first novel, the reaction I got most was “Oh wow, I didn’t know you liked to write!” Yes, I do, and always have. I just didn’t think fiction was that useful of a talent. Authors were the luckiest of the lucky; I never dreamed I could successfully indie publish.) 

But as the book flowed, and kept flowing, and eventually turned into a trilogy, and I finally admitted to myself that I wanted to publish it … I realized there was one thing driving me above all else. One reason why this book was different. 

Sure, I loved to write. But what I really wanted to do was make a difference. 

The world is a dark, scary place, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that everyone hits a point in life where they feel lost and alone. And not just regular lost-and-alone, but lost and alone on a profound, earth-shaking, confidence-shattering level. They hit bedrock and can sink no lower. They need an outstretched hand and compassionate words. 

I don’t know if I have what it takes to be a “great author,” but I do know I can reach out a hand. In my own way, I can help. I believe that in my bones, and I think more of us need to believe it.

To some, my novels have made a difference. Amidst the hard knocks of publishing, I’ve gotten notes, emails, and reviews from people who loved it. Who said it made them cry, and laugh, and have hope. To me, that’s mission accomplished. That’s why I chose to indie publish in the first place: to have full creative freedom over my novels so I could make sure their message was undiluted. 

And that’s what I hope to keep doing.

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