>>From: Belacqua
>>To: Perdita
>>Subject: attempt #2
>>Date: Thu, 02 Nov 2000

I was just sitting here, typing away, when all of sudden the browser window disappeared. I swear my computer is possessed and hates me. It starts for no reason, restarts itself at random, disconnects my communication ports, and erases hardware so that I have to go and re-install it. It is evil incarnate.

What I was typing about was that my evil computer finally let me hear your music. (It never lets me download or use the streaming feature because it sucks unholy ass.) I was very moved by it. My favorite one was Misery because it seems like you rummaged around in the ruins of my mind and pulled out those rusted fragments and made them beautiful. Your images are ones that I’ve used many times to try and make people understand what I’m going through: being cold and locked out of every warm place, standing in a rainstorm either with no protection from the rain or an umbrella with more holes than plastic on it, alone in the darkness, searching for any set of arms to provide some sort of human acceptance or sympathy, thinking perhaps that's the solution and finding out later it isn't…. I have this hard to suppress urge to stretch my arms up the coast to hold your head or hand and try to squeeze the pain from you like an over-soaked sponge because only so much consolation can be abstract. Sometimes you just need someone to be there when you break down, to hold you together when you're sobbing yourself apart. I don't know. E-mails are such fragmented and cold comforts, and I wish I could do something more.

I suppose I’ll give some sort of background to myself. I’ve lived in the south my entire life and hated every second of it. When it's not 115 degrees at 99% humidity, it's -20. Everything here is extreme. The people are extremely and sickeningly conservative, talking really slow and driving way too fast. They’re ignorant, racist, homophobic, etc. This place sucks. Growing up, I lived in a small town where I was the intellectual kid who was reading Plato’s Republic for fun in 10th grade, whose reading level was 10 years ahead of his age, who got straight A's by doing absolutely nothing. I was the outcast who didn't fit in because I refused. I could have had friends if I wanted to be completely phony and deny everything that I thought was right, but I’d rather be miserable than untrue to myself.

My parents are faux middle-class assholes who are more worried about what the neighbors think than they are about raising their firstborn child. I was essentially neglected, and I think neglect is worse than physical abuse because when your parents hit you, they at least have to acknowledge that you’re there. My parents were never there for me at all, and so until I was 16, I never had anyone to talk to. I had a handful of friends throughout my entire early life, and I wasn't close enough to them to confide in them. Being a male, with all the conventions, made it worse, so all my problems in my entire life were kept to myself. To add to it, my parents would barely let me out of the house, and they never treated my brother (2 years younger than me) the same way they treated me. They give him absolute freedom. They buy him a new car and complain about how I spend money too quickly (you know, money to buy FOOD and basic LIVING NECESSITIES). I resent them like crazy for bringing me into the world and then forgetting that I existed and had some feelings. Most of my comfort was in listening to music and reading, solitary activities, and I became an adolescent hermit. To this day I can't conduct myself in a social seting.

I’ve held one job in my entire life; I worked mosquito control for a summer. All I had to do was drive around in a truck by myself and let the machine spray the chemicals into the air. I’m terrified that will be the only type of job I’ll ever feel comfortable in. I can't stand sunglasses and I never wear them (partly because I wear regular glasses) because I love looking at people's eyes. I believe that everything beautiful about a person exists above the shoulders, and I can tell almost anything about a person from their eyes. You can't hide things from them.

I was thinking about it today, and I’m not so sure that my problem is a chemical imbalance or the result of personal trauma. I genuinely and philosophically believe life is meaningless and there's nothing to be done in it but suffer as little as possible and then die. Most people reduce suffering by alleviating it with some sort of lie (like religion or optimism) to convince themselves that they have meaning and are happy. Some people create the "will to live" within them, and I have personally decided to annul this will and sit and wait for death to come knocking. I don't know why I’m on these medications, or why I go talk to some strange guy once a week to try and make me "happy." Happiness is a total illusion. I don't know what I’d do if I weren't depressed. It is my creative spark, the lens which focuses the world into its true, unfluffed essence. It's what makes me feel alive. Suffering makes me conscious of my existence because the former cannot exist without the latter. I don't care enough to even continue that train of thought. It's just as meaningless to think about as it is to experience it.

My anxiety has been awful lately. My body is completely given out, but my mind refuses to stop working and what it's working on is everything I’m worried about. I have a perpetual case of butterflies, I can't sit still for 10 seconds, and I’ve started smoking again. My fingers tremble when I try to hold a cigarette, my writing is illegible because I can't control my arm muscles,.… I’ve become a whole body convulsion because I’m worrying myself sick. With that goes my social anxiety, which really makes all of this horrible. It took a lot of talking myself up to even send you that first e-mail because all I could picture were catastrophes. I felt like I would just be making a fool of myself and that you couldn't possibly be interested in anything I had to say. I was a wreck until I got a reply. So, not only does everything make me feel like dying, but I’m also afraid of shadows, possibilities that logically don't make a bit of sense, but which I just can't shake off. I think people are looking at me mockingly. I don't believe anyone would even want to be my friend.

I got to read my discharge statement from the psychiatrist at the hospital, and the two things that stuck with me were "severely depressed and in need of rigorous therapy" and "possesses no social skills whatsoever and is socially inept." I can't engage anyone in conversation. I can't start up friendships (in person). The 3 people I know all approached me and at least one of them did it because we had a class together and he was so bored he needed someone to talk to, no matter how strange. I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing and scaring someone away that I end up pulling punches and suppressing things. I read your journal entry about clubbing, thought about what is involved in that, and I froze in terror. I am horrified at the prospect of social interaction or even having to say something in front of people. I can't write in public because I’m scared someone will read it and think I’m strange, which is weird because I usually don't give a damn what others think, but I do hate to personally embarrass myself and I guess that's what I’m really afraid will happen.

I’m in a very long relationship (over 2 1/2 years) in which the girl initiated everything. She says "love"; I repeat it and don't know what it means. I don't know what my feelings are. I don't feel like I have any sometimes. I can't leave her because I can't hurt anybody. I’m a total paradox. I want to kill people and cause them pain, but I can't bring myself to hurt anyone. I shoulder all blame so others won't feel guilty. I’m a vegetarian for god's sake: a wannabe mass murderer who can't even kill an animal. It just comes down to the point that I value others’ lives more than my own. Mine isn't worth a week old pile of shit, and they think theirs is. I can't bring myself to shatter their disillusionment because I don't want them to see what I see. I guess I feel a deep sense of caring for people. I care about the people I know and I will put myself through hell so that they don't have to. I’m too nice. I’ve only been talking to you a few days and already I have this very deep caring for you. If I could, I’d stack your misery on top of mine and carry it all...that was hard to type.…

God, I don't know what the hell to make of anything. I feel like I’m staring up at this enormous blank wall as it is falling on me, and all I want to do is pull on it so it'll fall faster. I’ve never been to a party in my entire life. I got my first kiss when I was 16 (and the girl initiated it, and she was drunk). I’m not going to amount to anything substantial. Nothing will be gained by my continued existence...and my god have I talked myself into a black hole….

As a side note, another cool web page is goregallery.com. The coolest picture is a guy who committed suicide by sawing himself in half with a band saw...my god...I can't fathom the pain that drove him to that.

Now that this is obscenely long, I think I’ll conclude it. Our experience has provided me with a glimmer of inspiration. The German poet Rilke said that all poetry comes from experience. I believe that, but I also believe the poem doesn't have to directly mirror experience. The poet has full license to embellish, undermine things, or plain misrepresent things in the poem, so long as the feeling remains. So anyway, here it goes. It was a sonnet with a very loose rhyme scheme before the final two lines came to me and were absolutely necessary.

In my place, where it's always midnight
and I'm stumbling to find a sort of peace,
I saw a shimmer and followed it
To find an angel, knees to her chest,
Shaking with sobs forming crystal dust tears,
Glowing like a day-old trick or treat stick.
Her wings were dirty from dragging behind her
And her halo hung like an old coat hanger, crooked.
I sat facing her, emptying my emptiness,
When she extended towards me her finger
And I grabbed it with both hands.
I began to flicker like a lightning bug
Lost in the universe, and our wings
Began to rustle like yellow leaves.
It was New Year's Day.
It's always New Year's Day.

One thing I have to say is that I do NOT believe in angels; I use them as symbols for the artist, especially damaged angels. That's such a heartbreakingly meaningful and beautiful image to me.

Belacqua

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>From: Perdita
>To: Belacqua
>Subject: Re: attempt #2
>Date: Fri, 03 Nov 2000

Belacqua,

I've decided that I'm done trying. I have no reason, no desire, and no intention to try anymore. I'm not overly anxious about downing a bottle of pills right now, but I am about to begin making plans for...something -- anything, really. I've lost all my desire to sing or write or do anything with my life. Even when I was totally fucking depressed and ready to die at any moment, I still had that feeling that I had the potential to make something of myself. I consider myself to be a multi-talented person, but I no longer care if my talents go to waste. I'm ready to shut them all off and give up.

Thanks so much for the comments about my music. There's something about your e-mails that always makes me feel like I want to cry, whether with happiness that someone understands, or with contempt for the fact that you feel like I feel and I can't do anything to help. This time, I think it was with happiness because I KNOW you can understand what I'm trying to say with my music. So many people I know wouldn't know what a metaphor was if it bit them in the ass. I have such little respect for the general public because their overall intelligence level is so far below where I wish it was. What's the sense in being an artist if your audience can't comprehend what you're trying to say?! It drives me mad.

Speaking of audiences not being able to comprehend what's going on, I think I should tell you that your poetry is near genius. The beauty of metaphors is that they can explain the inexplicable. They describe through example, and then leave themselves open for worlds of interpretation. I love it. But again, so many people don't grasp the meaning behind a metaphor that it's frustrating to me to see them being misunderstood. So I just wanted you to know that I get it.

It's funny you should mention that you hate sunglasses. I hate when other people wear sunglasses, but I wear mine constantly. Basically, if it's daytime, I have my sunglasses on, even if it's raining or if I'm indoors for a short period of time. I love wearing them for the exact reason that you hate them. I KNOW people can see things in my eyes, but I always feel like I have to hide what I'm feeling. In fact, I know I have to hide what I'm feeling. If I ever expressed what was going on in my mind, I'd get fired from my job and I'd get into lots of fights with people. I feel protected behind my sunglasses, like no one can get to me, and I'm not about ready to let them. I also like to wear them so I can stare at other people. I love people-watching. I always stare at people as they go by, and sometimes it makes me all depressed because I'm so jealous that they can be doing something worthwhile with their time and can actually pursue a life, while seeming relatively happy. But sometimes, I really just like to see that not everyone feels like I do. It makes me feel almost like I'm doing something for the world by carrying all this pain, like I'm taking all theirs and keeping it for myself.

I've definitely had the opposite problem from you with people. I've always felt lonely, so I made every possible attempt to be around more and more people. Of course, when it comes to feeling bad about yourself, throwing yourself into social situations is not the best idea. I ended up getting drunk with all sorts of people who would find it positively fine to then do whatever the fuck they wanted to do with me, and I didn’t care. I kept trying more and more things in an attempt to feel like I fit in, when it wasn't really the GROUP that I wanted to fit in with, I just wanted to feel like a real PERSON. I just wanted to feel human, so I would try everything that other people seemed to enjoy, and it just made everything worse.

My entire life has been one big attempt to fool people. I've been acting as happy and perfect as possible for forever, and apparently it worked quite well. It was hard for me to even really know I was doing it. No matter how much I wanted to tell people or how hard I tried to tell people things, I would invariably feel as though they really would rather not know, or I simply wouldn't be able to say it in the first place. I'd open my mouth to say something, and it just wouldn't come out. I seem to have this talent for making myself fit in with people. I'm like a chameleon. As long as I know what I'm in for, I can change my dress, language, gestures, ANYTHING just to match the crowd. I've tried so hard to make people accept me, and all it's done is confuse me as to who I really am, and what the hell I'm doing. Quite frankly, I'm sick of all that, and all I really want now is to be taken seriously, and even that is difficult when people think you're completely crazy.

I hope to hear from you soon.
Perdita