I’ve been vibrating in the clouds of a manic state for more than a month. Three hours of sleep a night if I’m lucky, no appetite, mind racing, jabbering away to myself at all hours. Overwhelming desires for alcohol and sex after long periods without either. Each nerve in my brain feels like it’s been set on fire, white hot and phosphorescent, illuminating acute pathways through my skull. Not destruction, but enlightenment. It’s exhausting, this sense of GOGOGOGOGO, but I’m also keenly aware that if I allow myself to relax and stop this frenzied paddling, I will sink quickly and deeply.
On Nov. 5, 2020, Castiel told Dean Winchester the three words the world has been waiting to hear for 12 years. I love you.
My world is now fractured into BC and AC: before and after the Confession. Everything ground to a halt during those five minutes. I know I cried and screamed because I have the video to prove it. The actual memory has been corralled into a dark and distant portion of my brain, where memories are melted down and reformed as movies, shot from an outsider’s perspective.
Every minute of the following two weeks was agonizing. I needed to know how the writers were concluding these epic story arcs and what the fate of each character would be. Sam, Dean, and Cas were the most pressing, but I wondered about Eileen, Donna, Jody, the Wayward Sisters, Jack, Garth, Charlie… And, of course, I needed to know what the fallout of Cas’ confession would be – what path Cas and Dean’s relationship would take in the final two episodes. (Little did I know that, canonically, the answer was next to none.)
After Nov. 5, I didn’t get out of bed. I spent days sitting in the same position, propped against a mountain of pillows and blankets. Meals were infrequent and consisted of an apple or a granola bar when my muscles grew shaky. I returned to my Supernatural blog – becoming active on Tumblr once again in this curséd year of our lord 2020. And when the finale finally aired on Nov. 19, and I had to witness what this most loyal and passionate of fanbases was (wasn’t) given… something cracked.
Denial has softened most of the blow, allowing me to smile at Thanksgiving dinner and get out of bed each morning. Still, I felt the tectonic plates within me shift, splitting open a fissure in my core.
After 15 years, the CW’s Supernatural as we knew it was over. (A denialist of both the finale and the end in general, I hold out hope for a reboot. Looking at you, Ackles production company.) I expected to grieve the end, but as the minutes ticked by during the final episode, I realized with a sick, sinking feeling that I would also be grieving the characters, their endings, and the loss of what their stories could have been. The anger, hurt, betrayal, and pain were so overwhelming that all I could do was laugh at Sam dying in a cheap wig and Dean driving around alone in Heaven to an emo cover of “Carry on Wayward Son.”
I laughed hysterically, maniacally, and at some point the cackling turned to screeching. High-pitched screaming started ringing in my head that night, and it has yet to quiet. The racket feels like it’s going to shatter my skull through the sheer force of its volume, though the pressure is often released through my own incessant chatter, singing, cursing, or drumming on the table – anything I can do to make noise and expend energy.
This manic state of being is not pleasant, despite how much I laugh and despite how animated I appear. My mind and body are running on full throttle 24/7, and with minimal sleep and food, the exhaustion tears me apart. Existing with my mind on fire is only “fun” in the sense that a) this is the version of me that’s fun to be around at parties, b) I like having energy for a change, and c) it’s preferable to the alternative: a pit of despair and apathy.
I would attempt to jump ship on the mania, but I can’t face the other extreme right now. That dark, hopeless place is by no means unfamiliar, but for the last decade I have survived it thanks to the world that’s been my tether, my refuge. No matter where I am, no matter what hell or pain or loneliness I’m facing, I’ve been able to close my eyes and go home. I’ve been able to face the real world, move through my life, and get out of bed each day because I know I’ve always got my home and my family waiting, in some safe and impenetrable place within me. But I can’t go home right now because my family is dead, gone, or unaccounted for. Their stories were butchered, and that pain is fresh, albeit buried. And if I don’t have them – my home, my family, my rock – I’m not sure what I have. It doesn’t feel like enough.
So, I’ll keep buzzing on this high frequency and denying the end. If I’m entrenched in the daily drama and ridiculous conspiracy theories of this insane fandom, the show will remain just as relevant as ever, and I will never move beyond step one of the grieving process. I can ignore the crack in my chest, and hope my feverish, continued investment will prevent it from expanding.
I never wanted to live in a world without Sam, Dean, and Cas. So, although my world may be riddled with hope, mania, and denial, in the interest of self-preservation, Supernatural will continue to infuse every part of it.
