>>From: Belacqua
>>To: Perdita
>>Subject: Re: attempt #2
>>Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2000

Hello again. I was just thinking that, for some reason, no matter how much we don't want to try and no matter how much we know we'd be better off dead, there's this tiny, almost imperceptible voice hanging on to us by a strand of spider's silk, and it's saying we should hang on for a little while longer. Maybe it will change. Who knows? But that little voice has become a roar before and made me stop in mid-attempt and climb off a chair, back off a ledge, screw the bottle back up…. And it’s not like I kissed the ground, delirious to be alive. Instead, I was disappointed because I felt like I couldn't completely control myself. This other being in my head took over, this insane little survival instinct. I don't know. It's not fair he's there because I feel like he's probably tucked away in some lavish part of my head with the door locked so I can't get into it, and he has no idea what the rest of me is thinking or feeling.

The funny thing about being artistic depressed is that others can't understand what you’re doing. That's why so many artists pass their lives in obscurity until the rest of humanity catches up to where they were and can finally appreciate it. Someone (I don't remember who...Wilde?) said, "To be an artist is to be misunderstood," and it's maddening as hell. There are so many things I don't fully understand about my favorite authors, but I can still admire the way they say the things I can't figure out.

I can't fit in with any group no matter how hard I try. I always feel awkward and outside, and I end up feeling even more lonely. I just don't fit into a single group. I’m not punk because those guys are just dumb. I’m not hardcore because those guys are assholes. I’m not emo because those guys are dorks. I just wear khaki pants for weeks at a time with some sort of T-shirt. I just can't exist inside of boundaries. I can't limit myself to just one thing.

My mom and dad didn't believe I was depressed until I got a doctor to confirm it. Once, I was trying to fix it with St. John's Wort. I started taking some, and my dad said to me, "If you take that stuff and you don't have anything wrong with you, it can make you feel like what it's trying to prevent." I wanted to just scream in his face that this was a desperation move to get something done, and instead I just stared at him and said, "Yeah, I know."

Anyway, it doesn't sound ridiculous to want someone to be there for you. I wish I could be, but being unemployed and stuck in school limits my opportunities at the moment; although, if it were an emergency, I would skip school for a few days and drive through the night to be there.

Belacqua

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>From: Perdita
>To: Belacqua
>Subject: Re: attempt #2
>Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2000

Belacqua,

I sat at home and watched TV all day yesterday. Literally, I sat and stared at that stupid box for about fourteen hours until I finally took some Benadryl and told myself that it was just as useful to lie in bed trying to sleep. One of the things I was watching, though, was a Discovery Channel documentary about SWAT teams and how they train. In another life, I would've loved to have been a police officer. I've thought about it so many times, and I always laugh at myself because I'm so damn lazy that I'd never feel like chasing after any bad guys.

While I was watching it, I was contemplating Columbine, as all things involving law enforcement seem to remind me of it, and I got so fucking upset because of exactly what you just wrote to me about: that damn little voice that's telling me I should still be alive. If I could cry, I'm sure I would've been bawling, but I was just lying on the futon, staring at the TV, feeling positively worthless because I kept thinking I'm just too goddamn weak to kill myself. Try as I may to think of it as a good thing, I just keep condemning myself by reaffirming the fact that I can't kill myself. I started putting myself in the shoes of those two Columbine kids, and I envisioned how they must've felt at the moment they were about to pull the triggers on themselves and I was so jealous that they could do it and I, to this point, can't.

Then, the SWAT documentary started talking about some dude they found who had tried to kill himself by shooting himself in the temple, but it didn't work. He just destroyed both of his eyes, so he's blind and living in a mental institution for the rest of his life. Oh my god, I couldn't take it. I got so fucking upset that this guy tried to kill himself and it didn't work, and I knew that merely hearing that one story will affect me forever, and if I ever put a gun to my temple, I'll remember this guy who blinded himself but still lived. It's so unfair. I hate that little shred of a thought that it's not right to kill myself. I hate it.

Perdita