>>From: Belacqua
>>To: Perdita
>>Subject: masochism
>>Date: Tue, 28 Nov 2000

I swear I'm a fucking emotional masochist if ever such a thing existed. I put myself in these positions to get fucking reamed emotionally, and I could just as easily not be in them, but I stand there and take the fucking bullet dead between the eyes. Cassandra called me again, and I wasn't much in the mood for talking, but it's the girl's birthday, so I figured what the fuck. It was going okay, but then she started playing the victim, and I sat there letting her play her game. Then she asked if I broke up with her just because I had found someone else, or were there other things that were wrong, and god help me, I told her the truth. So, I had to go into details about why I had been feeling bad about the relationship, and I sat there as she was astounded at each one (because apparently, they were all my fault anyway...nothing new). So, for the past hour and a half, I've been listening to how much she misses me and loves me and cares for me and wants me to get better...blah, blah, blah,...Saint Cassandra swooping from the clouds to bring relief to the miserable.

I can't tell her that I don't care about her anymore. I don't have the same feelings, but I can't be mean to someone, no matter how awful they are to me, or how hard they're trying to make me feel bad (whether they admit to it or not). So, that whole time, I was sitting there with my right leg on my left knee, taking slashes at my calf and completely ruining a perfectly good sock in the process by swabbing the blood with it. Now it looks like I got into a fight with a lawnmower and lost. Thank god for pants. I've never really done this before. I did it a little bit before I met Cassandra, but at a certain point in the relationship, it became difficult to hide anything on any part of my body from her because she more or less had access to all of it. So, I gave it up, and when I felt awful, I would want so badly to tear a fucking ravine in my skin and just watch the blood hit the floor, but I satisfied myself with crushing pain (on my fingers so they wouldn't bruise). Now that she's gone, I don't have to hide anything from anyone anymore, and it makes me feel so much better. I don't think many people can understand that.

Right now I feel like running out and smashing someone's head between my fists. I just feel violent, probably because I won't let myself lash back at Cassandra, but self-restraint is second nature to me now. This, too, shall pass. I never got to be braindead today because of her call, and that really pisses me off. Fucking people can ruin anything. I'm going to go sulk for awhile and let myself clot.

I love you.
Belacqua

---

>From: Perdita
>To: Belacqua
>Subject: Re: masochism
>Date: Tue, 28 Nov 2000

Belacqua,

You know, I'm trying really hard to be nice about this, but I don't think I'm naturally a very nice person, so fuck that. I think I have to tell you that I'm developing quite the bitterness towards Cassandra. As much as I keep trying to tell myself not to get involved or not to think about her or not to let it get to me, it still bothers me tremendously, and I'm about two seconds away from going fucking postal. Every time you mention her, I just want to sit the girl down and fucking talk some sense into her. Why the hell would she be trying so hard to get someone who doesn't care for her to take her back? I don't get it. Would YOU want to be with someone who didn't care for you? I certainly wouldn't. The girl has some pretty fucking obvious problems with independence, and she's relying on you to be the foundation in her life. That's TOTALLY unfair to you, and I just want to fucking scream at her and tell her to stop fucking talking to you because she's pissing ME off by making you feel worse about something you already feel bad about. It's bad enough that she actually thinks of you as someone who WANTS a relationship of any sort, and yet she has to continually make things worse and worse.

So, there you have it. I tried, but I can't pretend it doesn't bother me, and I can't pretend I don't want to rip out her eyeballs. I'm sorry, but that's the way I feel. She's doing all these irritating normal person things that make me positively crazy. This is the perfect example of what I call "stupid human bullshit." The more I learn about normal people, the more I don't ever want to be one. And the more I want them all to die.

I think emotional masochism is our truest talent, Belacqua. Wouldn't it be nice if we could just follow through with all those thoughts that go through our heads? Wouldn't it be great to be able to say all the things we want to say and do the things we want to do without having to be so fucking nice about everything? Guilt is my greatest enemy, and as soon as I figure out how to eliminate it, I'll go on a fucking rampage.

When I first started my meds, I gathered together the journal entries that are now in Life Sucks, and I sent them all home to my parents. I had my dad talk to all my siblings and tell them about how I cut myself and that I don't like to talk about it, so they shouldn't ask if they notice scars. After all that trauma was taken care of, I suddenly no longer had to worry about cutting myself because everyone knew not to ask me about the wounds. Well, of course, when I was home over Thanksgiving, my older sister felt the need to ask about my leg in front of EVERYONE, and all I could do was laugh and say it's a long story. Then I went into my room, and several minutes later, my dad came in to tell me that he had spoken with her about it and everything, so I had to talk to him about it AGAIN, and I just wasn't prepared for that and I hate to see the looks on people's faces when they talk to me about cutting or when they notice the scars on my leg.

I don't know if you noticed my leg when you were here, but I have quite the collection of scars on my left calf, and I love them. I don't UNDERSTAND why people get freaked out by them. I don't know how people can be so incapable of understanding how much it helps. I don't know why people want me to stop. I hate it when people tell me to stop cutting myself. What harm does it really do? So I'll have a few scars. So what?

There's a definite part of me that thinks it's really cool that you felt the need to bleed last night. Since I like bruises, scars, and wounds on myself, I'm sure you can imagine how much I like them on other people, too. I do feel the need to tell you that I don't mean to condone cutting yourself, as the rest of the world seems to think it's such a bad thing, but hell, I think it's cool. It still pisses me off, though, that it was Cassandra who made you feel bad enough to do that.

Incidentally, I hope I wasn't intruding on your braindead time by calling yesterday. That's the last thing I want to do, as I realize how important braindead time can be. It's almost as important as sleep, and it can be just as hard to come by. So I apologize if I was intruding, but thank you for being there. It's pretty fucking amazing to me that I can actually talk to you about blowing people's heads off and not have you run away. So, thanks.

I love you.
Perdita