I Don’t Give A Sh*t About Star Wars, Am I Dead Inside?

For over a year now, I’ve been writing full-time here on Thought Catalog. During that time, I’ve written about some incredibly personal subjects. Early on, I decided to try and approach my work with an “open book” kind of mentality, to just bleed things that make me feel a little uncomfortable or scared to say out loud. I’m proud of myself for trying to always push a little further, even if it’s something just for me. The therapeutic release that comes with writing has been a life-saver, and I don’t say that lightly.

So why is it when I’ve talked about everything from clinical depression, alcoholism, toxic relationships, and devastating heartbreak that I’m still afraid to open up about this?

My mind panics and my naturally clammy hands start sweating with an intensity that is somewhat alarming. I wonder if something medically is wrong with me. Maybe there is an answer to all of this!! Some magical pill I can take that will correct this fatal flaw I cannot let the world know I possess.

I toss and turn the more posts I see cheering about the very subject I avoid discussing in social situations. I’ll slyly change the topic, cross my fingers until they turn purple, desperately hoping nobody notices.

Will people judge me? Will I lose support or friends? Is this something just too dark, too evil, too heinous to actually expose on the Internet?

But I cannot run from this anymore. It exists everywhere I go.

I, Ari Eastman, do not care about Star Wars.

Now please, before you start throwing tomatoes and rightfully earned insults my way, understand I didn’t choose this life. And it’s not from lack of trying! My first relationship in high school, a boy I was madly infatuated with, consisted of me sitting on his lap while he played World of Warcraft, pretending like I found it interesting. To this day, the word Azeroth still makes me sleepy. But I ached to be the perfect girlfriend and love what he loved. So I bit my tongue.

Later, he learned I had never seen Lord of The Rings and was appalled. He was ready to immediately fix this atrocity because he just knew I would love it. But this was just the beginning, he assured me as he set up a romantic Star Wars marathon.

And. I. fucking. hated. every. second.

Was I destined to be a lone wolf? Someone who straight up doesn’t know what an Ewok is, and furthermore, doesn’t care to?

But for those thinking I haven’t been punished enough for such a huge discretion, please understand life enjoys taunting me for it. This past summer, a man insisted on the Star Wars soundtrack playing in the background as we fucked. I thought, okay, maybe this is pretty bizarre but perhaps it will endear this damn movie to me?

WRONG.

Now I hear DAAAAA dun dun-a-DAAAA dun, duh-na-na, duna-DUN dun duna-DUN dunnnn and just remember being entirely unsatisfied, in all ways.

I want to care. I want to join you all at the theaters, squealing and crying because of how much of an emotional journey this incredible franchise has taken you on.

But I can’t. And I cannot live a lie any longer.