https://www.academia.edu/78372467/Reading_for_Recovery_R4R_Bibliotherapy_for_addictions?email_work_card=reading-history
The Center of Alcohol Studies (CAS) Library at Rutgers University developed "Reading for Recovery" (R4R), an open-access online resource designed to bridge the gap between individuals struggling with substance abuse and expert-vetted literature. Funded by an ALA Carnegie-Whitney grant, the project utilizes bibliotherapy—the use of books to address therapeutic needs—by combining clinical self-help materials with broader literary works.
The initiative aims to empower librarians and addiction counselors with a searchable tool to support recovery, which is viewed as a continuous process rather than a discrete event. The R4R collection includes titles that are professionally reviewed and available in public or academic libraries, disseminated via a LibGuide and social networks like Goodreads and LibraryThing.
Sample from Appendix
The abbreviated version of the short story F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Sleeping and Waking” with
questions, as used at the conference bibliotherapy workshop
F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Sleeping and Waking”
When some years ago I read a piece by Ernest
Hemingway called Now I Lay Me, I thought
there was nothing further to be said about
insomnia. I see now that that was because I
had never had much; it appears that every
man’s insomnia is as different from his
neighbor’s as are their daytime hopes and
aspirations. […]
With a man I knew the trouble commenced
with a mouse; in my case I like to trace it to a
single mosquito. […]
It is astonishing how much worse one
mosquito can be than a swarm. A swarm can
be prepared against, but one mosquito takes
on a personality – a hatefulness, a sinister
quality of the struggle to the death.
This
personality appeared all by himself in
September on the twentieth floor of a New
York hotel, as out of place as an armadillo. He
was the result of New Jersey’s decreased
appropriation for swamp drainage, which had
sent him and other younger sons into
neighboring states for food.
The night was warm – but after the first
encounter, the vague slappings of the air, the
futile searches, the punishment of my own
ears a split second too late, I followed the
ancient formula and drew the sheet over my
head.
And so there continued the old story, the
bitings through the sheet, the sniping of
exposed sections of hand holding the sheet in
place, the pulling up of the blanket with
ensuing suffocation – followed by the
psychological change of attitude, increasing
wakefulness, wild impotent anger – finally a
second hunt.
This inaugurated the maniacal phase – the
crawl under the bed with the standing lamp
for torch, the tour of the room with final
detection of the insect’s retreat on the ceiling
and attack with knotted towels, the wounding
of oneself – my God!
– After that there was a short convalescence
that my opponent seemed aware of, for he
perched insolently beside my head – but I
missed again.
At last, after another half hour that whipped
the nerves into a frantic state of alertness
came the Pyrrhic victory, and the small
mangled spot of blood, my blood, on the
headboard of the bed.
As I said, I think of that night, two years ago,
as the beginning of my sleeplessness –
because it gave me the sense of how sleep can
be spoiled by one infinitesimal incalculable
element. It made me, in the now archaic
phraseology, “sleep-conscious.”
I worried
whether or not it was going to be allowed me.
I was drinking, intermittently but generously,
and on the nights when I took no liquor the
problem of whether or not sleep was specified
began to haunt me long before bedtime.
A typical night (and I wish I could say such
nights were all in the past) comes after a
particularly sedentary work-and-cigarette day.
It ends, say, without any relaxing interval, at
the time for going to bed. All is prepared, the
books, the glass of water, the extra pajamas
lest I awake in rivulets of sweat, the luminol
pills in the little round tube, the note book
and pencil in case of a night thought worth
recording. (Few have been – they generally
seem thin in the morning, which does not
diminish their force and urgency at night.)
I turn in, perhaps with a night-cap – I am
doing some comparatively scholarly reading
for a coincident work so I choose a lighter
volume on the subject and read till drowsy on a last cigarette. At the yawning point I snap
the book on a marker, the cigarette at the
hearth, the button on the lamp. I turn first on
the left side, for that, so I’ve heard, slows the
heart, and then – coma.
So far so good. From midnight until two-
thirty peace in the room. Then suddenly I am
awake, harassed by one of the ills or functions
of the body, a too vivid dream, a change in
the weather for warm or cold.
The adjustment is made quickly, with the vain
hope that the continuity of sleep can be
preserved, but no – so with a sigh I flip on the
light, take a minute pill of luminol and reopen
my book.
The real night, the darkest hour, has
begun. I am too tired to read unless I get
myself a drink and hence feel bad next day –
so I get up and walk. […]
Back again now to the rear porch, and
conditioned by intense fatigue of mind and
perverse alertness of the nervous system – like
a broken-stringed bow upon a throbbing
fiddle – I see the real horror develop over the
roof-tops, and in the strident horns of night-
owl taxis and the shrill monody of revelers’
arrival over the way.
Horror and waste –
– Waste and horror – what I might have been
and done that is lost, spent, gone, dissipated,
unrecapturable. I could have acted thus,
refrained from this, been bold where I was
timid, cautious where I was rash.
I need not have hurt her like that.
Nor said this to him.
Nor broken myself trying to break what was
unbreakable
The horror has come now like a storm – what
if this night prefigured the night after death –
what if all thereafter was an eternal quivering
on the edge of an abyss, with everything base
and vicious in oneself urging one forward and
the baseness and viciousness of the world just
ahead. No choice, no road, no hope – only
the endless repetition of the sordid and the
semi-tragic. Or to stand forever, perhaps, on
the threshold of life unable to pass it and
return to it.
I am a ghost now as the clock
strikes four.
On the side of the bed I put my head in my
hands. Then silence, silence – and suddenly –
or so it seems in retrospect – suddenly I am
asleep.
Sleep – real sleep, the dear, the cherished one,
the lullaby. So deep and warm the bed and the
pillow enfolding me, letting me sink into
peace, nothingness – my dreams now, after
the catharsis of the dark hours, are of young
and lovely people doing young, lovely things,
the girls I knew once, with big brown eyes,
real yellow hair. […]
Irresistible, iridescent – here is Aurora – here
is another day.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Reread the first paragraph. What might be
different about each person’s insomnia? What might be
similar enough that the narrator can make
generalizations, or hope that readers might recognize
their own insomnia in his (as he seems to have with
Hemingway’s Now I Lay Me)?
2. Why does the mosquito disrupt the narrator’s
ability to sleep? Why has the effect of that night lasted?
3. What might it mean for the narrator to regret
having “broken myself trying to break what was
unbreakable”?
4. What kind of relationship does the narrator
seem to have to sleep? What kind of promise does it
have for him? What does he crave about it?
5. Drinking comes up here in an interesting
context. Where is it? What does he use it for?
6. Why might this story be relevant to the process
of addiction and recovery? Is insomnia similar to
addiction, or potentially connected?