For the Monsters in Your Head

Since writing has become a consistent method of therapy for me, in a blaringly profound way, I'll turn back to blogging for the first time in a long while. Maybe blogging on this site is just for my own personal benefit as a creative and emotional outlet, but I do always hope that what I write for myself can mean something for somebody else, too. Sharing is caring. I suppose that's the dance teacher in me.

I did sit on this post for the past few days, wondering if I should post it at all, but I think I would just do a disservice to myself if I didn't.

I've been reading more now in my life than I ever have before (without it being school related or required) and I feel like I owe a lot of the books I've recently read a raving review or high praise, but never before have I felt so understood, so specifically SEEN by any story like I have with this one--- Don't Let the Forest in by CG Drews. It's a story that helped me understand myself in a way that I never had before. That sentiment and realization within myself has reminded me that there really are no set timers for anyone; there's no age limit for any human to understand or come to terms with who they are. And, there's a beauty in the fact that even that can still change, constantly, invariably.

I'm an emotional lump that'll cry for just about any good story. Tears of happiness, sadness, anguish, anxiety, fear, disbelief--- every emotion in between. I think I've always had a consistent empathy and/or sympathy for stories about others outside of myself. I want to feel everything, always. But in a personal regard, I think I spent a lot of my younger years of life hiding what I really felt for myself. Not necessarily intentionally, just in the way that I thought it was how I was meant to hold myself together, and that I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, or step out of line, or the fact I wanted to be liked by as many people as I could. . .even if I didn't like them in return. Now as an adult, a lot of my emotions just spill out of me, probably because I just can't bottle it all up anymore. There isn't any room left.

When I turned the last page of this book, I cried in such a way that I don't know if I could ever describe it, how it felt, how it altered how I see myself or how I exist. Maybe it was pathetic, but I just felt so many things crash down on me. It made me feel things and understand things that I wasn't sure I ever could. And it all just felt like this weird "fate" thing, because it felt like this book came into my hands by accident.

Last week I really needed new gloves in these Midwestern sub-zero temperatures. I like the gloves that can convert to mittens, and it's hard to find a pair that has individual finger slots in them, too. I found some on the Target app, and I had a rare occurrence on a Wednesday night that I was done teaching early, so I headed to Target closest to the studio. But. . .I knew that there was a Barnes & Noble on the way. The roads were slippery, so I accidentally slipped into the bookstore.

I had no business spending money on another book when I'm poor, my TBR is monstrous, and I'm currently in the middle of a sort of book club with one of my absolute best friends. But, I went in with the mild intention of looking for a certain book that my (basically) sister-in-law recommended I read, and came across Don't Let the Forest In instead. It was also a random pop-up ad on my Thriftbooks app that same day. I was about to write it off as a mushy gushy dark academia book with maybe some YA-level spice, a book not typically my cup of tea, but I did find the queer vibes the inside sleeve blurb was giving super alluring (I do love to read anything queer. I am a rabid Percy Jackson fan, after all.) I had reward points to spend, too, so I thought, what the hell? And bought the book.

I then felt like reading it meant I was having an affair or cheating on Lord Derfel Cadarn, the protagonist of the Warlord Chronicles by Bernard Cornwell--- the series I'm reading in the little one-on-one book club I'm having with my bestie. So I put this new book off for a few days. I had a Sunday where I didn't have to go anywhere or do much of anything, but I spent the first half of the day reading some Derfel and sending video memos back and forth with my bestie discussing the book, and the second half of the day working on some of my own writing. That night, I logged on to play some Overwatch or Rivals with my brothers, but they're so invested in Arc Raiders that they didn't pay me much mind. So, I decided maybe I would just start reading this new book.

I opened it at 11:30p, and had to force myself to close it by 4:30a. Both my cats slept on my lap the whole time, and when I say I never moved from my comfy designated reading chair. . .I mean I never moved. When I finally forced myself to put it down and go to bed, I couldn't sleep, even though I knew I had to. I hadn't been sleeping well or eating well from all the inexplicable anxiety I've had lately, and I knew I needed to fix it and should've gone to bed at a responsible time. The book was all I could think about, though. It kept me awake. I went on autopilot all of Monday while I caught up on work and into teaching in the evening, and the moment I got home, I finished the book. . . and cried.

Not only is the book queer, but the main character is asexual. I think I've read one book in all my life that had a definitive asexual main character, and that was because I actively searched for a book like that. But this book. . .it all felt like an accident for me to even have it in my hands in the first place. I still can't get over the odds of how I came across it, and how I was so pleasantly stupefied and bewildered to see myself so directly and explicitly described/represented in a book character. Well, two book characters. I see myself in both of these lovers.

I don't even know if calling them "lovers" does them justice. It's more twisted than that; it's more horrifyingly beautiful than that.

It's much more different than that.

I related to these two so much it hurt. The POV character is painfully quiet, is anxious about anything and everything, spirals into inexplicable panic attacks on the regular, doesn't eat when he's stressed or worried, is wrangling with what it means to be asexual, and is thoroughly obsessed with his best friend. But he also strives to be a writer, and writes beautifully twisted one-page stories about monsters and dark elf princes in the forest. The other character is the best friend he's obsessed with. That character is loud and determined to defy the rules, is willing to fight everyone if it means protecting anyone and anything he cares about, is attracted to men and women alike, and all the while is a talented artist who draws and paints the monsters from the POV character's stories. He creates art that's different from the norm.

There were too many similarities between me and these characters for me to ignore.

I've been avoiding using their names because even the name of the main POV character hits me hard.

Andrew.

Yes, of course, there's the similarity to my own name, but that in itself has more depth.

I had an uncle named Andrew. I never got to meet him. He used to like climbing trees.

And this book is twisted with things that grow and rot in the forest, and of grotesquely beautiful botanical body horror. Roses and thorns growing out of your eyes, moss at the back of your throat, vines in your stomach, of mushrooms and rotted roots appearing everywhere you look, of monsters made of soil and dead leaves, of the trees moving and bleeding and speaking. And as the book ends, climbing a tree becomes the gut-wrenching reason for this story to even happen in the first place.

There was a twist toward the end that planted the idea that maybe the monster fighting and falling in love was never real at all, and then a second twist that put that bewildering epiphany on its head. The first twist leaves you wondering what was even real at all, makes you sick to your stomach, and the second twist made the entire book about grief. . . but you'd never know that as you're reading it. You read the last line of this book and turn the page expecting more, but instead you get the acknowledgements page and the author saying, "If you've turned the last page and are now frowning at the wall, everything is as it should be."

I won't say any more specifics about it, because the shocking revelations and ambiguous ending were part of the horrible beauty of it all.

I know that I get obsessively passionate about a lot of things, especially stories, to the point that I sometimes wonder if I'm supposed to be embarrassed by it. I think a big reason why I cried so hard after reading this is that I was understanding that stories and art like this are just so important to who I am, what I do, and what I care about that it only seems fitting that I'll want to rip open the rib cage of this story and nest myself within its pages, the same way Andrew wants to nest in the rib cage of the only boy he'd ever really love.

The representation of asexuality hit me hard. Andrew literally said at one point, "asexuality sucks"... and I couldn't agree more.

For the vast majority of my life I never understood what asexuality or aromance meant, didn't know that it was even a thing. I've never been with anyone, and most of my life I thought it was just because I was sheltered or prudish, or in a few cases too overwhelming and obnoxious for anyone to handle or want to deal with. I've had crushes, I'd consider myself straight, but as I got older I understood that the crushes were just because I appreciated someone for who they were or in some shallow instances how they looked, not necessarily for the idea that I wanted to be with them. I still have such crushes.

I thought I was just too much of a wimp or chicken shit to even try dating. I thought I was just "out of the loop", or maybe just an obnoxious pink freak that scared everyone away and would rather keep it that way than try to tone it down to make others feel more comfortable around me. But every time I've thought about trying to get with someone, try for something "more", it's never felt right. It's never felt comfortable. The one time I did try to "date", I wasn't even sure if it should be considered attempted dates, or if it was just the two of us making it look like we were trying to date because everyone around us wanted us to try. I felt so wrong. And it was never because of him, because I look back at it and think the two of us might've actually been friends if we didn't feel like we were supposed to be doing something "more".

I remember in college there was a day we were doing some improvisational exercise in one of my dance composition classes and the professor gave us the sort of visualization to "remember one of your really bad breakups and incorporate that into your movement". I raised my hand and asked, "What if we've never been in a relationship to have a bad breakup in the first place?" And my professor responded with, "Well, then for you maybe just imagine loneliness and your heart just bleeding". I don't think I ever took what she said as a means to be harmful or hurtful, that professor was actually one of my most favorite dance professors I ever had, but of course the statement hit me. It hit me in a way that I couldn't really describe to herwhy it hit me. If I had taken the time to really explain it, she probably would've understood, but at the time I had no idea how to explain it. I never resented her for it, but the whole thing certainly reminded me that I was different.

Or there was a time I was at a house party at some point in college and a group conversation dove into everyone talking about their celebrity "sexual awakenings." I legit had no idea what that really meant, but I still wanted to be a part of the conversation. So, all I did was mention the celebrity crushes I had, the celebrities I thought were cool or cute or attractive in my weird "not-really-attracted-to-anyone-like-that" way. Everyone then dove into the sexual dreams they had with these celebrities, and the guys went in-depth about wet dreams. I've never felt uncomfortable hearing other people talk about that kind of stuff, you can tell me everything and I genuinely don't mind hearing stories that make us human, I've just always felt numb to it. As a middle school girl, I learned about what a wet dream was for a guy in health class, or that women could have similar dreams, but I have never had one myself. I don't have any part of my brain that could concoct something like that for myself. I didn't realize that made me different until that conversation, when just about everyone had some sort of thing to say, or a way to relate.

I also read my first smut series this past summer, and read through the smut sections wondering why the sex was taking so long. I just wanted to get back to the story. At one point I was like, yay real happy for this couple and their love, but can we get back to this awesome story about fae vikings and pirates? I read through it without any personal feeling or reaction at all, just the feeling that I was happy for someone else to find happiness.

Back to Andrew of Don't Let the Forest In, he knew he was asexual but still loved one boy wholly and completely. Andrew wanted to be kissed, to be held, and reading through his story actually just made me realize that I don't even know if I wanted any of that. To be touched, to feel romance. Sure, I love hugs, I'll hold your hand, I'll cuddle on the couch with you to watch a movie, but I could never make any of that more. We'll use the word platonic, I guess, but I feel like I can feel a bit deeper than that. Because at the same time, I could relate to how Andrew felt consumed by a twisted and obsessive love, how he'd do anything for that one person. To a degree I feel that way for everyone and everything that I love in my life, but now I think I understand that my love is just different. It's true and genuine, though, I can always guarantee you that.

I suppose I've been an extra emotional wreck as someone who lived in the same house for 32 years, is the oldest of five kids, someone who would literally do anything for her siblings, and then about a year ago set out to live alone completely. I have my own space for the first time in my life. I keep questioning if I'm doing anything right, though, and am constantly wondering how fucked up I am to only ever want to be "alone", and not actively searching for a sexual or romantic partner that I'm supposed to share my life with. It's hard to describe, because I still want to start my own family, and I do want my own kids. I still consider myself an extrovert, too. I want to be social. I want to have friends.

I just have to do it all differently.

Anyway, you could say I'm aroace, but I wouldn't take this post as an "OMG did Andi just come out of the closet?!?" because I never felt like I was in a closet to begin with. I've always been unmistakably me, and I am beyond grateful that I've been surrounded by people that I love who have always been accepting of that and give me love in return. I just think I'm starting to find better ways to describe it all, and to understand it more within myself.

What is magical is that all of this really is fluid, and humans are always changing. I could meet somebody and everything I wrote here about myself could be null and void. But, then I could always be this way and weird and pink and nerdy and loud and too much and different.

And I'm starting to understand that different is good, and I'm okay with it. And being just okay is more than okay.

I'll stop rambling now. This was a really long post, but as always, long is the only way I ever write anything.

Thanks for reading this through, and like I said, I will always hope that my art and what I share could mean something good for somebody else, too. I cried the entire time I wrote this, but I suppose it was one of those soul-healing cries, if you believe in that sort of thing.

There's a million sites out there to explain the beautiful spectrum of LGBTQIA+, but I did find this blog post that I thought explained my aroace interpretation in a helpful, straightforward way.

https://www.rula.com/blog/aroace/

And if you haven't gotten the message. . .I highly recommend you read Don't Let the Forest In by CG Drews. They are an Australian author! I discovered that this book is actually Barnes & Noble's February 2026 YA Monthly Pick. I got it the last week of January, so I'm sure it's got its own table in stores now. Rightfully so.

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May no seas fare smooth.

—Andi May