Actually, Dean would have died on May 2nd of THIS year (Sam died on his own birthday). Dean makes his deal on May 2nd, 2007 after Sam dies in Cold Oak, in All Hell Breaks Loose: Part Two.
But this is actually worse, because Castiel died in May of this year too.
If all other events of the series remained unchanged and Dean had been given a fair deal, he and Castiel would have died within DAYS of each other. Perhaps even on the SAME day.
CRUSHINGLY ROMANTIC TROPE IF I EVER DID SEE ONE.
And thank you oh so very much for the reminder that Sam Winchester could potentially be mourning the TWO most important people of his life right now, his brother AND his best friend.
His parents have carefully kept away from all ovens, because when he was born a curse was laid that by the time the sun set on his 21st birthday, he would burn his finger on an oven and fall into an eternal slumber
The fact that they’d managed it was almost as unbelievable as the curse itself.
Eric Bittle, ironically coming from a long line of bakers, had successfully never touched an oven in his life. In fact, he’d never even seen an oven in person, just pictures. Glossy Sears catalogs and later charming pastel ovens in country kitchens on Pinterest and double Viking ovens on the Food Network. Friends only ever came to his oven-less house for playdates, and as he got older and the friends became fewer this was less of concern. Suzanne Bittle learned to get creative with her recipes, using the tools that were safe to have around Eric to make the best meals she could.
Jack had the biggest car, so he drove. The rest of the team piled in wherever they could fit. Bittle got draped across Holster, Shitty, and Nursey’s lap while Ransom, Chowder, and Dex sat in the trunk space, hunched over to avoid being seen from the outside.
Lardo, in the passenger seat, quieted everyone so she could call Bittle’s parents as they pulled out of the driveway and headed to the hospital. She was quiet for a long time after she explained the situation, listening intently. Eventually, she said, “I’m sorry, he’s what?”
Ask and thou shalt receive. Also Alex it’s totally cool, and honestly did me a solid since this is probably the longest thing I’ve ever written (besides, I’m still loving “People should kiss Bittle in general. Bittle was young. Kissing was fun. Jack wondered how many people Bittle had kissed.”)
Not proofread, please excuse any errors.
They lay Bittle on his bed. There’s a moment where everyone hovers around the bed, staring down at Eric who is curled onto his side, the only sound in the room his small huffs of breath as he breathes deeply. If it weren’t for the knowledge of the curse (and Jack is still reluctant to buy into the idea, fighting the urge to kidnap Bittle away to the ER) Bittle would look perfectly fine. Instead the sight of Bitty’s eyes flickering back and forth beneath his eyelids makes Jack feel vaguely ill.
Lardo nods her head towards the door, “We should give him some privacy. Shits, you good to pick up his mom?” Shitty nods grimly, jangling his keys before turning and heading out the bedroom door, the rest of the team following in line behind him. Lardo gives Jack’s arm a gentle squeeze as she passes by, but doesn’t linger. Jack does.
I need jack to ask more about cas (to dean preferably). And I want him or Sam to tell dean how jack considers him his father, how he chose him.
I want to hear dean talking about cas. About how dorky or clueless or self-less and badass he was. About how many times he saved their asses, how cas saved him from perdition, how cas cared so much about jack to the point of risking his life.
Please, give me this!!!
When Jack goes to Sam and asks him, “Will you tell me about
Castiel?”, Sam gives him an unreadable look and only says: “I think you
should ask Dean.”
So Jack does, although he doesn’t understand why.
He finds Dean in the garage. The loud, black vehicle is turned on,
and he can feel the vibrations shaking deep in his chest before he even gets close.
The door on the driver’s side is open. Jack can see Dean in the vehicle, sitting with his head back against the
seat. He has one leg inside the car, the other leg stretched
out. His knee is faintly bouncing. Beneath the noise of the
engine, he can hear the sound of music playing from the radio.
Dean’s eyes are closed, and he doesn’t notice Jack standing in front of the open door.
“Will you tell me about Castiel?” he asks, for the second
time that day.
Dean opens one green eye and stares at him. Jack looks back, because he has learned the importance of eye contact if he wants to show that something is important to him.
Finally, Dean straightens up and jerks a thumb to the
passenger seat. “Get in.”
Jack rounds the car, opening the passenger door and
sliding into the bench seat. He shuts the door and waits, straight-backed,
hands on his knees, while Dean turns down the radio.
“What d’you wanna know?” Dean asks gruffly.
“Everything. Anything,” Jack says sincerely. “I don’t remember everything about my mother clearly, but I remember that sometimes she felt very alone, or felt very afraid. They were very strong feelings, strong enough that I could feel them too. But those feelings lessened, when Castiel was around.”
Dean makes a sound – a strange, choked kind of laughter –
but he leans back against the seat again. He’s quiet
for a few moments, and then he starts to talk.
And he talks, and he talks. And Jack listens.
___
Dean tells Jack about Sam dying, and making a deal with a demon to save him. Jack is surprised, and thinks that he doesn’t know very much about these two men after all, these men who brought him to their home and speak of Castiel with such affection and wistfulness in their voices.
Dean tells Jack about the forty years he spent in Hell, and it’s painful to listen to. Jack doesn’t particularly like hearing about this part, but he listens because he wants to hear about Castiel saving Dean from Hell and using Jimmy Novak as a vessel and helping stop the apocalypse.
Deans tells him about Castiel fighting a war in Heaven, and working with Crowley. Dean tells him about Castiel walking into the lake, and
returning as Emmanuel. Dean tells him about Castiel being tricked by Metatron, and the
angels falling from Heaven. Dean tells him about Castiel being possessed by
Lucifer, and meeting God and His sister.
Dean tells him about all of these things – an overview of Castiel’s history with the brothers, the good and the bad. The obvious cornerstones and momentous events of Castiel’s life.
But these are the things that everyone would know about Castiel, and Jack is more interested in the other things that Dean tells him – the small things, the tiny details filling in the cracks like
grains of sand. These are the words that Jack soaks up, leaning slightly
towards Dean to catch every word, hands gripping his knees a little tighter.
About how Castiel learned to doubt and ask questions. About the shadows of Castiel’s wings. About the ugly trenchcoat and backwards tie that Castiel would never give up, because they had been part of Jimmy’s sacrifice. About how Castiel loved PB&J, at least for a while.
About the haunted look in Castiel’s eyes whenever he talked about Heaven. About the exasperated tone Castiel would
use when Dean or Sam would do something particularly stupid. About the subtle smile that would grow at the corners of Castiel’s mouth sometimes, when he was amused but pretending not to be, hidden unless you knew where to look.
Dean barely glances at Jack as he talks. Instead, he stares out the windshield with distant eyes, as if seeing something other than the garage of the Bunker. He gestures as he talks, lively hand movements to accentuate points in his stories. It’s the most that Dean has ever talked to Jack, and the longest he has ever gone without casting one of those secret, guarded looks in Jack’s direction, as if waiting for the moment that Jack will attack them – looks that Jack knows he isn’t supposed to see. But now, it’s as if Dean has almost forgotten he’s there, and is simply talking to himself. He hardly looks at Jack at all.
Once, while describing the process of teaching Castiel something called ‘knock knock jokes’, Dean even smiles – nothing more than a quick flash of teeth under faraway eyes. It’s not even aimed in Jack’s direction, but it startles him, because it’s the first time he’s ever seen Dean smile, and it looks so out of place that it almost seems wrong. Sam smiles, sometimes. But Dean doesn’t smile, at least not around him.
But Jack listens, and as he listens, he thinks he understands.
When Jack thinks about his mother, there is an painful feeling, an empty, aching sensation – almost like being hungry, except the
feeling is in his chest, not his stomach. He might not have met her, but he had known her, and her absence is like he was born with a piece of himself already missing. He does not entirely feel whole. This is the same feeling he can see reflected in Dean’s eyes now, and it’s almost startling to realize that he is not alone in this.
Jack and Dean are not so different, he realzes, despite what Dean might think. Jack and Dean share something, and it’s called ‘loss’.
Dean has finally stopped talking, words sinking one by one under the rumble of the Impala until they stop coming at all.
“You miss him,” Jack says, when it’s obvious that Dean isn’t going to say anymore. It’s not a question.
The answer is not immediate. It comes quietly, hushed, like footsteps in the dark.
“…yes.”
“You loved him,” Jack says.
“Yes,” Dean whispers.
With a slow movement, Jack reaches out and teaches Dean on
the shoulder, brief and light. A small connection, an acknowledgment.
“I am sorry,” Jack whispers, “for your loss.”
Dean nods. And then he lowers his head,
puts one hand over his eyes, and does something else that Jack never knew Dean could do: he cries.
For better or worse, the
bunker’s in shit shape. Repairs take up a lot of their time, and while it’s
hard work, Dean’s thankful for the distraction. If he works himself hard, he’s
so damn tired when he crawls into bed that he doesn’t think or dream or cry.
The worst part is that
damn kid starts following Dean around like a lost puppy. For a while, he seemed
to like Sam more, which was just fine with Dean. Dean doesn’t like the kid for
obvious reasons (“He’s Lucifer’s kid,” he tells himself. “Enough said.” “Sure,”
he answers back. “Has nothing to do with him being the reason Cas got
killed.”), and it creeps him out when he feels the kid watching him.
“Keep him on a shorter
leash,” Dean tells Sam one night. “I don’t want him around me.”
“Yeah right.” Sam snorts.
“I’ll just tell the all powerful nephilim what to do.”
“He ain’t all powerful.”
There’s one very important thing he can’t do, so he’s basically useless.
Can’t even control his powers.
“Well, he’s more
powerful than me. And he’s not even doing anything. Just give the kid a
break.”
Since Sam refuses to
help, Dean goes back to ignoring Jack. The kid’ll take a hint eventually,
right?
Wrong. A week more of
having a silent shadow trailing him throughout the bunker has Dean grinding his
teeth and wanting to punch a few more walls.
“What?” Dean snaps one
day. He’d been tuning the Impala just for something to do, and the normally
soothing task has him completely on edge because can’t Jack just leave him
the fuck alone!? “What do you want? Why you keep following me around?”
Jack doesn’t even look
taken aback by the outburst. “I want to learn more about humanity.”
“What? TV, the internet,
and Sam not good enough resources for that? Why you bugging me?”
Jack tilts his head to
the side and Dean wants to go over and physically straighten it. How dare
this kid be like him.
After a moment of
consideration, Jack answers. “I know my father—”
“Cas isn’t your father.”
“… I know my father
was fond of humanity, and of you and Sam in particular. If Castiel trusted you
both, I thought you would be good models for how to behave. Maybe you’d give me
insights on how to be the type of person Castiel and my mother would have
wanted me to be.”
Dean wipes grease off
his hands and doesn’t meet Jack’s eye. “Yeah, well, stick with Sam. I ain’t
exactly a role model.”
“That’s not true.”
The flashback is short
but vivid, and Dean feels short of breath. It’s like the world’s closing in on
him, and he gropes for the Impala just so he can keep his balance.
“Sam says that you and
Castiel were close,” Jack continues on, as if Dean’s not having a nervous
breakdown in the middle of the garage. “Closer than he and Castiel were. I
thought that would make you a better choice to learn about humanity. Surely
Castiel saw something in you that was worth seeing.”
“I-I’m not— he didn’t—”
His knees give out and he lets himself fall to the ground. Jack lays a hand on
his left shoulder and Dean shudders. Like father like son, he supposes.
“You are, and he did.”
As if Jack at all knows what Dean meant to say. Dean sure as fuck
doesn’t know, so it’s absurd to think this month old creature possibly could.
They stay there like
that, with Dean trying to catch his breath and wishing he could cut out his
heart, it’d hurt less. Jack stays at his side, kneeling beside him and keeping
a steady hand on his shoulder. When his head clears, Dean can’t help but laugh
at how fucked up his life is. He’s losing his shit because the love of his
life—an angel, for fuck’s sake—is dead, and that same angel’s adopted
son—the spawn of the literal devil—is trying to comfort him.
What a world.
“Alright, enough of
that.” He shrugs off Jack’s hand and pushes himself to his feet. “I’m telling
you, kid, I’m not special. And I don’t appreciate the silent brooding as you
watch me do stuff. It’s creepy.”
Cas used to be creepy,
too.
“I’m sorry.” Jack looks
more frustrated than apologetic. “I’ll go—”
“Whoa whoa, I didn’t say
that.” He hands a tool to Jack and ushers him over to the Impala. “If you’re
gonna stick around, you gotta make yourself useful.”
“I don’t know anything
about cars.”
“You think I did either
when I started? No. You gotta learn. You said you wanted to learn how to
be a better human, why not start with learning how to be human, period. We can
add in the morals and stuff along the way. Got it?”
The corner of his mouth
perks up a little. “I got it.”
“Alright, so this here
is the battery…”
Dean doesn’t want to be playing
babysitter or uncle or dad to this kid, but Jack has a point. This right here,
the two of them bonding over the Impala’s hood? This is what Cas would’ve
wanted. And if Dean can’t save Cas this time, well, at least he can do his best
to follow his wishes.
Citoyen(ne), do you print up business cards declaring you to adhere to a defunct political standpoint? Do you refuse to wear any color but black or dark-green-but-only-at-night-time? Do you have less than one friend?
If you answered yes to any of these questions, you might be Pontmercy! But don’t worry yet, mon ami(e), because here is a handy diagnostic quiz to address your concerns! Keep track of your score as you answer these questions about your symptoms.
Question 1: You see your love interest across the park. What do you do?
My only love interest is universal education and equality amongst all mankind. (+0)
Which love interest? I have so many. (+2)
Approach them stealthy-like even though they can clearly see you, sit down next to them, aggressively say nothing. (+3)
Question 2: I say Napoleon, you say…
Buonaparte (+0)
Bonaparte (+2)
The great emperor who brought France and her people to the pinnacle of their achievement(+5)
Question 3: Do you have enough money to get by?
Yes, because I am a student in Paris and can literally buy anything I want. (+1)
No, because I am a member of the working class and am probably starving to death RIGHT NOW. (+1)
No, because I refuse to accept money from my reactionary grandfather. (+5)
Question 4: Personal politics?
Republican (+1)
Apolitical (+3)
Clinging to the most fragile shell of an ideal because the person I idolize above all else believed so. (+5)
Question 5: Why are you at the barricades?
I seek to overthrow Louis-Phillipe and lead the people to a glorious future. (+0)
Honestly? I’m here because I got drunk and passed out before the fighting started. (+3)
I CAME HERE SEEKING DEATH. (+5)
Question 6: Honestly, were you still alive after the Paris Uprising of June 1832?
No, and I didn’t even get a death scene. (+0)
No, but I got such a badass death scene like you don’t even know. (+2)
Yes. (+5)
RESULTS:
0-4: Enjolras? Combeferre? Feuilly? ?? What are you guys even doing here? You are way too devoted to your carefully-reasoned, well-articulated ideals to be Marius Pontmercy.
5-7: Courfeyrac, Lesgle, you are not Marius Pontmercy, but you introduced him to Les Amis, so you are still somewhat to blame for the tragic mess that is Pontmercy. Jehan, you are approximately as ridiculous as Marius, but, you know, in a cute way. So you’re fine.
8-15: You are probably not Marius Pontmercy, but your life is in such shambles that it is an easy mistake to make. Grantaire and Éponine, I respect your rights to make your own decisions but perhaps you should make different ones in future???
16+: IT IS LIKELY THAT YOU ARE MARIUS PONTMERCY. SEEK TREATMENT IMMEDIATELY AT YOUR LOCAL POLITICALLY-CHARGED CAFÉ.
A really harrowed-looking man who was probably in his 60s came into the shop today. He was wearing a gold-colored tie that kept sliding down the side of his neck because it was tied very poorly, and a rumpled light blue dress shirt. I did not see his legs or shoes. Part-time cashiers are sometimes just not afforded the luxury.
We said hello to each other as I scanned his items (diet coke and a nature valley granola bar- $2.69), me sounding more interested than usual just because he sounded so out-of breath and very engaged in his purchase. Also maybe because I could not see his shoes.
“How’s your life going?” He suddenly asked, swiping his card, not casually but almost pleadingly curious.
“Uhm, all right I s’pose” I said, too startled to think of a more cheery lie.
He nodded somberly. “Me too… I guess.” He paused and looked at me for a minute and then just said “it’s a Monday, ya know.”
“Mondays are like this sometimes” I supplied, feeling like we were having a really weird conversation hidden under the one that was actually taking place.
And then he left. I forgot to look at his shoes.
PART II
Honestly I had no idea that I would ever have the privilege of writing a sequel to this post. I considered it an odd moment, an interaction that changed me in a way, but a fleeting one. I automatically assumed our paths would never cross again, there was such a finality to that window of time on Monday August 22nd of 2016. And yet.
He returned.
I didn’t truly notice him come in, glancing up from whatever menial and already forgotten task I was busy with, but not registering who it was or why he seemed to put out an aura of familiarity. It had been weeks and I haven’t even caught a glimpse of him; the memory of Monday August 22nd of 2016 had faded like a dream. But lo he appeared before me, dressed in exactly the same fashion that made him look like he had just crawled out of carwash (albeit with a pink shirt and purple tie this go-around.)
His face lit up when he saw me, again holding a diet coke and a nature valley granola bar. ‘How is your day going?’ He asked earnestly.
‘Pretty well.’ I said, professionally containing myself, “how are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good” he said, sounding more cheerful than before but just as harried. When I handed him back his change and items and he looked like he was going to cry.
“Thank you” he whispered with a look of reverence I have only seen on the faces of ancient church members receiving the eucharist.
“It’s no trouble,” I promised, trying not to look perplexed.
He bowed (LITERALLY BOWED) and then made a hurried exit stage left, reminiscent of Lear just before the second act, halfway into madness.
A Lear I had again forgotten to note the footwear of.
PART. 3.
Okay I’m not even bothering with the pretentious Hemingway style for this one; I’m still reeling over the fact that he came back after four months AND on a Friday instead of a Monday no less.
Notes:
He was wearing literally the exact same shirt and tie he had on from part one, only with an orange sweater and fancy jacket over the ensemble to indicate that it was winter
He bought Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips this time instead of his standard granola bar, but the diet coke was as usual
He told me that he always felt guilty for buying snack food but ‘you have to do what you have to do’
He then smiled sadly at me and said ‘enjoy your weekend… If you can.’
I sat in stunned, unblinking silence for about six minutes until a customer came up and looked me over worriedly
Who is this man
WHY DO I KEEP FORGETTING TO LOOK AT HIS SHOES
Part Four
First thing’s first,
Probably about two years of wear on them but otherwise well cared for. Socks were white, which I was only able to notice because this human being has zero clothes that fit and his pant cuffs were hovering about 3 inches away from his shoes. I keep thinking his outfits can’t possibly get any better, but this one takes the cake:
Crumpled white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gigantic scarf that looked as though it were made out of mouldy carpet, neon orange striped tie, and a matching neon orange plastic digital watch that probably came out of a box of honeycombs back in 1988.
He did not grace me with his odd conversational charm today, but I received something better. A clue.
Today he was buying a red notebook and three ballpoint pens instead of snacks (which was questionable but this is a Thursday we’re talking about; the day that falls on the chaotic spectrum and which I am known for my overzealous distrust of), and when he pulled out his luxury black Mastercard to pay for his items he said eight words which shook me to my very core.
“I do get a staff discount on these.”
This has never come up before because discount plans don’t apply to food items. I have no need to ask the identity of a man buying a granola bar and a diet coke. But now.
I didn’t speak as I handed him his receipt, just nodded courteously. Only staff members know about the specific discount so I had no real need to ask for an ID for proof, and I was cursing my mistake in not asking for it anyway.
I must find this man. I have been here for three years and yet have only seen him within the confines of the store at odd intervals. I’ve never even seen him step into the store, or leave (another customer is somehow always in line behind him and demanding my attention.) I spent half an hour going through the college’s entire staff directory this afternoon… and may have found something. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, I am not yet certain and will have to gather a few more items of information, but for the first time I can promise a part to follow. Perhaps, an ending.
Cinq
Not an ending of any sort, but a very brief update from the field. My work schedule has changed since January and I was honestly beginning to wonder if I wouldn’t see the man again until the fall, as it’s been more than two months now. He startled me quite a bit when he literally blew in as if by a gust of wind right as my shift was ending.
He was in quite a hurry and only bought a diet coke ($1.50) before blustering(?) off, giving me no chance to run an investigation or perception check, but if fashion checks were a thing…
Please imagine, if you will, a man wearing a yellow polka-dot tie that was not even tied, an orange scarf, the watch mentioned in my previous entry, khakis, a bright periwinkle shirt… and an impeccably matching woolen periwinkle cape. He was also carrying a very large black satchel with tartan lining, every single pocket of which was unzipped.
He looked like a hedge wizard.
I want answers.
6.
I found him.
Masters in theology from Harvard
Distinguished professor of philosophy
God-tier identification photo; I cannot believe that I have not been hallucinating this man for the past 12 months and 41 days.
Welcome to The X Magazine’s newsletter, The Exclusive, where we’ll deliver behind-the-scenes content, insider tips, and more from some of the most interesting, exciting, and important people from the worlds of theater, fashion, dining, nightlife, and more. Broadway darling and television star Aaron Tveit leads our debut issue — find out more about our photoshoot with him below.
1. Aaron Tveit lounges in a 1944 Chris-Craft. 2. Tveit shoots pool at the private Connecticut property, as videographer Drew John Barnes looks on. 3. The X creative director and photographer Nathan Johnson (right) uses a mirror to capture an artistic shot of Tveit. 4. Writer Tess Gunty relaxes with Tveit’s labradoodle, Miles, in between photo set-ups.
Aaron Tveit is the kind of guy who can show up anywhere, wearing anything, and you think, how can he possibly look this good? When The X Magazine team arrived in Pittsfield, Massachusetts, Tveit met us for dinner before Company at Barrington Stage, where he starred as Bobby. Sporting his best athleisure and a big smile, Tveit greeted us full of excitement to be the cover star of our debut issue.
We indulged in pasta and wine (he had water and black coffee), and Tveit chatted about spending his summer in the Berkshires and how much he’s enjoyed escaping the New York City heat with his labradoodle Miles. He loves to golf, and Pittsfield boasts several courses. The endless invites from locals to play have kept him busy on the green.
For our photoshoot the next day, Tveit packed a bag of healthy snacks (almond butter and celery) and dog supplies. When we arrived at the gorgeous estate, a la Gatsby’s West Egg, we entered one of the woody guest lodges, framed by lush trees and a glittering lake. “This never gets old for me,” Tveit said. “Getting dressed up in a beautiful place, wearing clothes picked out by people who are really good at picking out clothes — I mean, come on.”
He poured Miles a bowl of food and another of bottle of water before leaving to change. “Oh my God — I look like a Harvard student,” he said, emerging in a turtleneck and jacket. He then shifted into “Yacht Voice,” as he calls it, riffing about stocks and cigars, recalling his Gossip Girlcharacter Tripp van der Bilt. “Okay, okay,” he said with a chuckle. “I’ll stop.“
But the thing about Tveit is you don’t want him to stop. We shot for eight hours, and Tveit never lost his charm and excitement.
We hope you’re as excited as Tveit and we are about The X Magazine, your new destination for all things culture.
Videographer Drew John Barnes, stylist Drew Jessup, editor-in-chief Tony Marion, Aaron Tveit, writer Tess Gunty, and creative director Nathan Johnson.
His whole weird theory about penis envy and children being sexually attracted to their parents and secret desires and all that shit actually came straight out of an attempt to ally himself with wealthy and influential rapists and was a direct form of victim blaming.
He had started the research looking into “hysteria” which at the time was really usually referring to women’s symptoms of PTSD. It turned out that the reason so many woman had these symptoms is because so many of them had experienced sexual violence– especially CSA and incest at the hands of their fathers.
At first he was making real progress, and it was through working with these women that he discovered that talk therapy could be used to treat trauma. The symptoms of PTSD were lessened when women were able to safely speak about their experiences out loud and be believed.
But it wasn’t the women who paid for the therapy. It was their fathers, husbands, the same men who were perpetuating the violence in the first place. And Freud didn’t want to validate his patients (the women) if it meant making his clients (the men) unhappy.
So he came up with a new idea. These symptoms weren’t from trauma. The memories weren’t real. These women were just sexual beings as children and had penis envy and it made them lust for their fathers and fantasize about the rape that they had reported to him. That’s where the shittiest parts of Freud’s theories emerged.
Another part of it besides just the monetary aspect, though, was that there was a feminist movement on the fringes starting up at the time and by publishing work about women’s CSA he would be aligning himself with it and therefore losing support, respect, funding, prestige from his male peers and from the psychological community at large. He literally made that gross victim blaming shit up to keep his own reputation with these fucks and to make sure he still got publication and fame.
By coming up with fake theory about little girls fantasizing about incest he not only fucked over generations of women, the feminist movement that was arising, and the entire psychology field for years to come, but he also completely swept away any progress made in understanding trauma and so we didn’t have any clue why men coming back from war had “hysteria” like women during WWI.
And our research on PTSD and trauma is still lacking to this day, especially because of the stigma that maybe traumatized people deserved it or wanted it or imagined it. People don’t want to believe it’s real. Perpetrators of traumatic violence want everyone to forget about it, not acknowledge it, or trivialize it.
And they have Freud’s cultural legacy to help them.
Can you provide academic citations for this? This is really neat.
If you want some more, just google, “Sigmund Freud Seduction Theory Problematic.” There’s lots of academic and non-academic discussion on the topic, but TLDR Sigmund Freud is basically disregarded in almost all aspects of psychology by anyone who actually cares about their patients, so fuck that guy for holding psychology back.
Words cannot express how much I hate Freud. His theories have been entirely disproven by current psychological research, but using him to interpret literary texts is still a widely accepted technique in the field of literary study today.
English departments across the country will not bat an eye at tenured professors bringing Freud into lectures and citing him in scholarly articles and books. Doing a “Freudian reading” of a literary character or theme is regarded as a valid means of understanding and drawing meaning from works by authors as diverse as William Shakespeare, James Joyce, and C.S. Lewis. And it is based entirely on this guy’s unbelievably sexist, flat-out fraudulent, and thoroughly disproven research. It’s insane.
I need people to listen to this, because although his methods might be of use, his entire theoretical work is just fucking lies and bullshit misogyny.
me thinking about shakespeare normally: mercutio was gay
me thinking about shakespeare at 3 am: romeo and juliet is underrated as a story. why? because everyone treats it as a love story when they should be treating it as a commentary on how children are too afraid to come to their parents with a problem or even voice their opinions on things without fear of facing repercussions. juliet didn’t want to marry paris, some old guy she didn’t know. so OF COURSE she was going to choose romeo, some hot young thing that talked nice and looked nicer and probably made her feel special. she had had at least a conversation with the guy. but no. she can’t tell her father that she doesn’t want to marry and would rather try to get to know that nice montague boy that was chatting her up while crashing her party. but of course she can’t. both of because societal expectations and because of the whole blood feud. and then there’s romeo. we all call him an emo fuck but the fact remains that it is highly hinted that he had depression and while finding someone “to love” doesn’t automatically fix that in a person, him “loving” juliet definitely did seem to improve his mood while his parents just brushed him off. and in the end of the story, they’d both rather kill themselves then tell their parents that they’re going to be disappointing them by telling them who they “love” and that’s just fucked up. these were teenagers. and while this may have not been old billy shakes’ original message, it stands that this interpretation could benefit being taught to a lot of students and even some parents.
me thinking about shakespeare at 3:30 am: also know what was fucked up? mercutio and tybalt died without even knowing what they were dying for. they literally say in the beginning of the play that no one remembers why the blood feud started. and mercutio wasn’t even an capulet or montague. this wasn’t his fight. but he died anyways, under romeo’s arm, by tybalt’s hand. sure, they were fighting because tybalt was pissed about romeo seeing juliet and shit, but mercutio didn’t know that. he thought tybalt was just starting shit just to start shit. he didn’t know what he was dying for. “a plague on both your houses” indeed. and then tybalt. fucking firey tybalt. like i said before, no one knows why the blood feud started. he essentially just died because his family hates another guy’s family probably over something like the 13th century equivalent of a sports rivalry. that’s so fucked up. while i don’t remember what their exact ages were, i’m pretty sure they were teenagers too. what the fuck.
me thinking about shakespeare at 3:35 am: and then benevolio. oh god benevolio. what even happened to him??? first, he watches this guy who was always a jackass to him but he’s probably known all his life get killed, then his (boy)friend dies all because of something his cousin does, and then his cousin is exiled/flees before he’s exiled. he’s then all alone for like the rest of the play, until he assuredly walks into the mausoleum at the end of the play and sees his cousin dead on the ground with some girl he’s maybe seen twice in his life dead on top of him. what the fuck. what the actual fuck. poor benevolio just lost his two best friends and now he’s all alone. and you know they never even say if he’s in the play for the rest of the thing. you just assume he is. for all we know he could’ve skipped town, or killed himself as well, or died in a duel, or anything. i always headcanoned him as the youngest of the group. and like, that just makes it worse. poor benevolio, the guy that was left all alone at the end of the play with all his friends and acquaintances dead. “for never was a story of more woe / than that of juliet and her romeo”???? bullshit. for never was a story of more woe than that of our poor fucking benevolio.
me thinking about shakespeare at 3:50 am: mercutio was gay
Zoe's blog 