I have a confession to make. I don’t make confessions often, and when I do they usually aren’t really confessions, they’re planned, thought out revelations that I’m pretty certain are going to be well received. But this is different. This confession is different.
Because I don’t care how it’s received.
I’m not sure when I started to care what people thought of me, how they saw me. I know that once I was a little girl who cried when she was sad, refused to brush her hair, and didn’t wear matching clothes. I’ve seen her picture. I know she was real. But somewhere along the line her spirit was broken. Now when she cries at a funeral, she feels weak, she won’t go outside with greasy hair, and her pajamas have to match.
I still like this girl, but I want to liberate her. That’s why I created this blog. This is my personal emancipation. I will no longer be bound by the chains I made myself to keep safe. I want to pet lions.
So I have a confession to make.
I am unconditionally, and irrevocably obsessed with the Twilight Saga.
A lot of you probably already know this to a degree. You’ve seen my “Team Edward” t-shirt, my Eclipse cup, and have heard me admit, on an occasion or two, that I reread the books every year and have seen the movies a dozen times each. But I’m pretty sure none of you think I’m drop dead serious as I am, and I know that not a single one of you knows why.
Oh, and all of you think that it’s silly.
I know you think it’s silly. I see your eyes roll when I talk about it. I heard you, over, and over, and over again when you told me how bad the books were and that the movies were cringe worthy. Believe it or not, I can tell when a comment is condescending, and I know that the moment I told you about Twilight you stopped giving my opinion weight.
Which is why I’d clam up. It’s why I said, “Well, I like them,” and left it at that. I didn’t argue with you, correct your egregious misunderstanding of canon, or tell you that your words hurt. Because all of that would’ve opened me up to more hurt.
But today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, I have decided to open myself up to hurt.
I’m not going to argue you with you. I’m not going to waste my time trying to explain to you that your distaste of this book series is likely founded in misogyny rather than actual taste.
I’m just going to ask you to be kind.
I read Twilight for the first time when I was 12 years old. I was in the sixth grade, a low point in everyone’s life, and everything I did felt wrong. In the years since Twilight I have seen lists on the internet titled “Heroines to Introduce Your Daughter to Before Bella Swan!” and “25 Literary Role Models Better than Bella Swan!”. I have seen jokes made about naming baby girls Bella, but not after Bella Swan, after Bellatrix Lestrange. (Bellatrix Lestrange by the way was a supremacist and murder, but you’re right, that’s a much better namesake). I have seen her on lists of how not to write a protagonist, lists where she is diminished to no more than a Mary Sue. I’ve heard it all.
But Bella Swan was the hero I needed.
When I looked in the mirror, I saw dull brown eyes, flat brown hair, and someone completely unexceptional. I was smart, but I was awkward, and clumsy. People didn’t really like me, they barely knew me, and those who did simply tolerated me.
Bella Swan was a lot like me. In some ways it was purely coincidental, but I can promise you that every 12-year-old girl you know looks in the mirror and wonders if there’s a single interesting thing about her.
Enter Edward Cullen.
Edward Cullen was amazing. He was beautiful and funny and smart and everything you could possibly want in a boyfriend. And he was absolutely batty about Bella.
I regret that pun.
But, it’s true. Edward loved Bella more than his own life. And you knew that because he was always telling her. And he was interested in her. He found her fascinating, asking her questions about her thoughts and her opinions, wanting to know everything from the album in her CD player to her favorite gemstone. So I felt fascinating. Because I felt like Bella. So, I felt capable of holding someone’s attention, their love. The loneliness didn’t crush me anymore.
I felt hope.
And I carried that hope. Through seventh grade I wore Twilight like armor. I always had my copy with me. When I finished tests I would read it, skipping through my favorite parts, escaping to a world that alleviated the loneliness. A world that promised me love was real, and powerful, and that I could have it.
And I know exactly what you’re thinking, because I also speak asshole. and “That’s not what it’s like in real life…”
Thank you. I haven’t heard that eight billion times.
But what does love feel like?
I think I know. I think I’ve felt it. And it’s kinda the same, but love’s stronger. Love feels like Twilight turned up to an eleven.
And even if I’m wrong, even if Twilight is setting my expectations too high and all that, who the hell cares?
Why do you care?
I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I’m great. I have been single for almost three years and I’m perfectly content. I recently came to the realization that I may never get married, that I may never have kids, and I’m okay with that.
Because books are the salve to heal aching souls. And when my soul aches I reach for the balm that has saved me from my loneliness time and time again. The story and world that gave me things to hope for.
Because Bella doesn’t just get a boyfriend. Bella gets a best friend, two sisters, two brothers, another mother and father, a whole slew of vampires and werewolves happy to put their lives on the line for her, her own father back, and a daughter. When Bella moved to Forks she had no one, but she found a family.
I have found my family. I have a mother, a father, three brothers, a sister, several best friends, a dozen or so amazing friends, a whole slew of extended family, and a healthy and happy relationship with the girl I see in the mirror.
Bella’s story is about choice; the choices she makes in pursuit of the life she wants. All through her story people try to dissuade her, to convince her she wants something different. All through her story life tries to push her off track, distracting her and working to convince her that the things she wants are impossible and unwise. But she doesn’t listen; she does whatever the hell she wants.
I want to be more like Bella Swan. I want to be brave.
So that’s my confession, and I seal it with a promise to myself. I am never going to let my fear of you, and worse, my fear of myself, keep me from being happy again.