Imagine this: You are a nineteen-year-old college girl who has never had sex before. You’ve never even had a boyfriend. You think about dating your guy friend’s roommate simply because he’s into you, even though he isn’t your type. But what is my type? You ask yourself, wondering why you haven’t had a boyfriend before. What a silly thing to ask yourself, you know what your type is.
Your type is a white actor named Chris; He was in one of those movies where he wins the girl in the end. Your type is the charming dimpled boy band smiles; you might have a poster of him on the walls of your childhood bedroom. Your type is freckled nerdy kids; you had a crush on Austin once. You have many types.
Imagine that for some reason, you always lie when someone asks who your favorite Avenger is. “Iron Man.” It’s not Iron Man, it’s Black Widow.
Imagine looking back at your preteen years and how you had to decide between team Edward or team Jacob. I’m team Edward because Bella deserves the best. After watching the Twilight Saga, you sought out a near dozen films with Kristen Stewart in it.
Imagine watching SpongeBob Squarepants the Movie several times just because you liked the sound of Scarlett Johansson’s voice.
Every girl has strong women they look up to. Scarlett Johansson happens to be one of those women. Her and Kristen Stewart. And Emma Watson. And your French teacher. And that exchange student from Italy. And the actress in the show you’re watching right now. Her hair is wrapped up in a bun of dreadlocks. Her sharp eyes are surrounded in eyeliner and thick-rimmed glasses. Her smile softens her face and a gleam of sunlight catches the baby hairs around her forehead. Another woman onscreen kisses her cheek. Your heart flutters.
Imagine trying to go from class and back every day trying not to think about things that you are too afraid to think about. Things you won’t let yourself think about. Until you slip up and think about them anyway.
Imagine the feeling of nausea dropping into the pit of your stomach anytime you let your mind astray, having to stop dead in your tracks to keep yourself from derailing.
Imagine spending over a year in a state of torn identity. You ripped yourself into pieces and examined them over and over again, looking for clues with a magnifying glass that would only let you see blue. Imagine re-examining it all again with your naked eye and being too afraid to make connections on your own. Or worse, thinking you made up this panic, thinking you wanted to be special and you went too far to the find answers to questions you never even realized you had.
Imagine knowing that it’s too late now. You did go too far. You got too many answers. You threw away your identity. And for what? Understanding something about your childhood? About who you are now? Peace of mind? Truth?
Imagine wanting an explanation as to why life happened to people, but not to you.
Imagine thinking you could be religious now, and so you pray to God every day that you would never fall in love with a girl. This way, you would never have to tell anyone what you discovered.