My whole life books have been everything to me. I feel like books parented me. What other people went to their parents for, I went to books for- information, inspiration, comfort, entertainment, you name it. Over my whole life (I’m 65 now) I acquired a lot of books. At times when I was dead broke, I’d always find a few dollars to buy a book. That’s the background.

My late husband and I moved out to the country 21 years ago. He died after 8 years and many health problems. We had no children. I lived there on my own for 12 years and finally decided I had to move into town. I was just too isolated, sometimes never seeing anyone from Thursday to the following Tuesday. I do freelance work and don’t have a regular job every day. I’m a homebody, to be sure, but this was getting out of hand.

A year ago in December, I made the decision and found a house in town right away. The neighborhood is great– very friendly and I no longer feel so isolated, The house is much smaller, but that’s what I wanted, as I had a couple of rooms in my old house that I never even went into. I also had a garage full of stuff from my and just from living there for 20 years. And an extra building that my husband had used as a pottery workshop.

I handled the move entirely on my own, with the help of a consultant for the move itself and another consultant to handle the sale to get rid of the stuff I did not take with me.

Here’s the salient part: I probably had over 1,000 books. Some from decades ago; some more recent. I went through them and boxed up the ones I wanted to keep. In my living room in my new house I have three floor to ceiling bookshelves with some of those books. In my bedroom are shelves with my approximately 300 cookbooks. I kept all of them. I didn’t want to bring all of the other books. I suppose I could have found room by lining the walls with shelves. But I really didn’t want all of them.

Even so, I think about all of the books I left behind. I culled and selected, but toward the end of the process of sorting everything and moving everything all on my own, I was so exhausted that I didn’t go through things as carefully as I wish I had. I think of books I left behind that are out of print, that were special to me, that were gifts from special people, that I just didn’t think to bring.

After the movers took everything to the new house that I labeled as wanted, the sale people came in and had a huge sale of everything that was left, including the books. And everything that did not sell just went to the dump! I know that included many, if not hundreds of my books. This thought just makes me physically ill. I’m a childless only child, and those books were my friends, my companions, and my family.. They got me through long nights, through the agony of missing my husband in the months after his death, through breakups, through loss, through sadness… I could go on and on. Some people are comforted by having a freezer full of food, or lots of money in the bank, or a mantlepiece covered with family photos. Those books were my comfort, my resource, my well.

I can’t seem to get past this. It’s been a year and two months since I moved.

I’ve replaced some of the books and, being a serious kindle user, I’ve replaced some on my kindle using the matchbook program. But many are out of print. Some were given to me by friends and teachers and were signed. I just was so exhausted by the whole move that I didn’t go through everything as thoroughly as I should have. Too late now.

I’m trying to get to the root of this grief/sadness, as I believe this is more than about the physical books. I wonder if my grief is displaced onto the books because leaving that house severed the connection to my late husband? I feel like I abandoned a houseful of kittens and puppies that needed me… that I declared I didn’t want them and just walked away and let them be hauled to the dump. I KNOW books are inanimate, but they seemed very alive to me and I related to them as friends. The move happened very quickly. I made the decision at the end of October, found the house within two weeks, and moved mid-December. Coincidentally, I moved 20 years to the day from the day my husband and I had moved into the old house. Maybe the book thing is a delayed reaction to the shock of the move?

Even writing this out has helped dial down some of my anguish. But I’d appreciate any insight into my sitch. (BTW, I’m not a hoarder, so refrain from suggesting that.) Thank you.