ho-ho-my-lad:
I want to talk about the boys in my head. I want to talk about the room we sit in, with its two windows and the bureau and the nightstand, and the red pterodactyl skeleton hanging from the ceiling so I can remember the word redacted. I want to talk about the down comforter and the stack of twenties I put on the table to remember a line of dialogue, and how the verdigris boy smirks at me and says anyone walking in would think I ran a brothel. I want to talk about his hands, how they’re always cupping his phone because I can’t stand to think that I’d trapped him there. I want to talk about those hands around my hips like rose garlands when I sit on his legs and draw eyeliner on him. “For a plot point,” I whisper into the corner of his mouth, kiss his forehead, “so I’ll remember in the morning.” I want to talk about those times he sat me on the edge of the bed when I cried and said, “I’m the part of you that loves you.”
I want to talk about the one who was standing out in the snow. I want to talk about holding him until the shaking subsided, then guiding him upstairs, where the verdigris boy sits on the bed, rolls his eyes and scoots over, so I can sit this cold, tall boy down, remove boots, doublet, trousers, shirt, kiss his jaw, warm his staring eyes. I want to talk about the hot bath water, the soap under my fingernails when I dig into that matted hair. I want to talk about the ache in my sternum.
I want to talk about isolation. I want to talk about insanity. I want to talk about how I am presented with these men to love, to idolize, to lust after. I want to talk about how, when I do, I have to say I’m not one of those girls. I want to talk about patriarchy, about double standards. I want to talk about shame. I want to talk about waking up with the heat of it in my throat, like a preteen boy that’s just discovered pleasure. I want to talk about how they only kissed me, and I only smoothed their hair and thanked them. I want to talk about the daydreams to fill the gape of my violently empty, anger-riddled days. I want to talk about the boys that look nothing like my sunburnt father. I want to talk about drowning in unreality because it’s far preferable to the disappointment.
I want to talk about loneliness.
I want to talk about the girl who floated in, all in blue, who gathered the tall boy into her arms and welcomed him home. I want to talk about bundling all together under that down comforter.
I want to talk about the fact I can’t tell my therapist I’m living in a dream world with boys that don’t exist, just so I can pretend I have somebody to look after, because I don’t think I’m capable of looking after myself.
I want to talk about the boys in my head.
Firstly: this is exquisitely written, as is everything you write. Write more. No, even more than that. Write all the time.
I think it’s important that everyone have daydreams if you feel there’s a void that you’re not able to fill immediately. Daydreams aren’t cures, they’re supplements. They have nutrition, they have value. If a person goes for too long without sleep they will hallucinate, because our brains need to dream. It’s part of our healthy cycle.
I live a very, very good life, but it isn’t perfect, and I feel voids sometimes. I entertain daydreams every day. I look forward to — I’m not joking — the minutes between lying down to go to sleep and actually drifting off, because it means I can daydream, and I comfort myself. I’m an old woman and my house is full of Winchester boys and their friends, at night after a big Christmas dinner where everyone got presents, and I go around and make sure everyone has enough blankets and pillows. I’m rolling out pie crust while making conversation across the counter with someone, Misha Collins, maybe. I face a villain, I hold up my hands, and they fall to their knees under the weight of sudden realization of what they’ve done. I cradle their head against my stomach as they cry, and tell them it’s going to be all right. I don’t wait until I’m in bed, either. I do this every time no one is looking.
Waiting for the rest of your life to start can make you feel crazy, but you’re not. Wanting to care for others is so wonderful, it’s an urge you should never suppress, even if you’re just doing it in daydreams. It’s in your heart, and it’s got to come out. Kit reminds me all the time: ain’t no shame when it’s only love. I think it’s beautiful.
So tell us about them all. Tell us about your loneliness. Tell us about your love.
