Reading your books and trying to forgive, or at least excuse, your actions is like being in a toxic relationship. I’ve finally had enough.
Somehow, even through everything you’ve done up to now, I found it in me to just not think of it. I repeat your own words in my head, reminding myself that I should not dwell and forget to live.
It’s not like I read a copy of Prisoner of Azkaban to literal pieces in the years I questioned my sexuality and had an array of crushes on friends that I had no idea how to process. It’s not like I, like so many other people, latched onto the obvious subtext that Sirius was very probably not straight, and found solace in that during the worst years of my life. (Because it didn’t matter if he was bi, like me, or gay, which seemed more probable, it mattered that I could see myself in the books I loved.) It’s not like I saw you laugh at and verbally abuse children on the internet for daring to ask about the same things I thought about.
Oh, wait.
Since last night, when I packed up every book, every t-shirt, every necklace stamped with a quote that I now cannot bear to be seen wearing, I’ve been repeating the five stages of grief on a nonstop loop.
This can’t really be happening. There’s no way you’re doing this now, given the month this has been, given the year this has been. But you can’t have a moment without attention on you, so of course you did this. Of course, we’re here again.
How dare you make me look at things beloved friends gave to me, that just so happen to reference your books, having to decide if I get rid of them because I cannot justify keeping anything that reminds me of you or keep them because of who gave them to me and the thought behind it. Do I compromise my morals, hide whatever it is at the back of my closet (how ironic, given the circumstances), and hope that no one ever finds it or notices that I never wear it? Or do I hope my friends understand that I mentally cannot keep that? I cannot have that noticeable red t-shirt peeking out from the bottom of the drawer? How dare you put me in this position.
But, maybe, there are other authors, other creators, who have committed similar atrocities whom I can still appreciate. Except that there aren’t. When I was sixteen and found that the frontman of a band that probably saved my life was a terrible person (It’s not important what he did, or what band. This is about you, not him.), I got rid of all my CDs the next day. And yes, I hated that I had to do it. I hated him for making it so I couldn’t listen to the music that made life feel a little more okay for a couple minutes. But I am nothing if not a moral person, in my own sense of the phrase, and I cannot enjoy something if I know the person who created it is absolutely morally reprehensible.
I can’t listen to songs by that band anymore without hearing every bad thing they’ve done in the lyrics. Hypothetical lines sound just a little too real, and I’m reminded of an interview by a band member’s ex-wife who tried to warn everyone years before that these are not good people. If I try to listen to that music, I only grow to hate it even more, and, by extension, hate myself for ever feeling a connection to it. It’s the same way with your books. I know that, if I try to reread them, I will examine every word and break down every bit of subtext until I hate them and myself for liking them, once upon a time.
I remember the scenery outside the car as I listened to the audiobooks. Mostly, I only remember scenery for the dramatic scenes, but still. I remember conversations I had with friends about the series and how passionate we were. What am I supposed to do with these memories now? I used to cherish them. They used to feel like some of the good moments before my life took a dramatic turn, but I can’t see them like that now. I don’t want to say my childhood was ruined, but I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt me when you smother a few more of my good moments.
After I pack everything up, I lie on my bed, and I can’t read something else. I can’t listen to music. My world narrows down to a twin sized mattress and the box of my youth that sits beside it.
I remember when my mom’s father, the only grandparent I have a consistently good relationship with, gave me the first book in the series from his own personal collection because he thought I would enjoy it. I can’t even begin to tell you how it felt to put that in a box to be sent away with all the others. I would hate to see it on my shelf if I kept it, but we’re in the middle of a pandemic, and what if he doesn’t make it, and I just got rid of that book? J K Rowling, how dare you?
I know we’ve had this thing going on for a long time now, but we can’t go on like this anymore. I almost feel like you’ve been gaslighting me, but I’m not quite sure, and doesn’t that say everything. I’m done with trying to justify your mistakes, or twist your words into something a little more palatable. There’s no going back anymore. There’s no possibility of you changing your ways in the future. You’re so convinced that you’re right, and that your way is the only way, there’s no hope of ever getting through to you; You don’t even apologize anymore, now you just tell me I am wrong and explain why you’re right, even when you couldn’t be more wrong.
Goodbye.
Sincerely,
Your ex-reader
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