>>From: Belacqua
>>To: Perdita
>>Subject: fun with therapy
>>Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000

My therapist told me today that I'm dealing with everything perfectly normally and I'm doing a great job. Why can't I fucking tell him anything? I'm sitting there wondering how the hell this guy can't tell I'm lying out my ass to him because I'm scared shitless to tell him what I really feel. I wish he could put on a little helmet and I'd put on a little helmet, and he could swim in my brain for a little while and know exactly what the hell is wrong. I can't verbalize to him how I feel. I can hardly verbalize to anyone how I feel. If you didn't already feel like I did, I couldn't verbalize it to you. Hell, most of the time, I don't even know what the fuck is wrong with me. I'm so terrified of being institutionalized that I'm scared to act like anything is even wrong with me. We ended up just shooting the shit for most of the session.

I see my psychiatrist tomorrow for the last time because her practice is closing. Now would probably be the time to just fuck it and end the whole process. I'm not going to get anything accomplished unless I can open up, and I don't really want to get better anyway. I just want to manage it before it kills me, and that's just not going to happen. I'm already downgraded to meeting once every other week, and I probably need to meet 4 or 5 times a week if I'm going to get better. I guess I'll tell the shrink tomorrow that I'm not interested in taking medications anymore. I'm tired of the side-effects with no results. Who knows what'll happen after that?

South Park comes on tonight. That's something to look forward to. And Full House is almost on...time to start slipping into a catatonic trance so I don't vomit while I watch the show. It's gray and cold and drizzly outside. I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse. Anyway, I hope your day at work went well and you got a lot of stuff done and weren't too miserable doing it. I miss you.

I love you.
Belacqua

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>From: Perdita
>To: Belacqua
>Subject: Re: fun with therapy
>Date: Thu, 30 Nov 2000

Belacqua,

You've probably noticed from my journals lately that I've been thinking a lot about how life is one big obligation. Well, I just came back from walking to get some form of lunch, and I ended up wandering through the misty drizzle and thinking about an interesting parallel involving the rain.

You know, I really like rain. I love it, in fact. Rain is such a wonderful thing to me because the sensation of rain as it hits your face and runs down your nose is really very much like what I feel on a daily basis. I always feel like there's some force somewhere raining insecurities and doubts and troubles all over me, and they just stick to me and change me altogether.

And I have a particular aversion to umbrellas. I never carried one in school because I didn't mind going to class completely soaked, even if it meant I had to be wet for the next twelve hours. But now that I'm sort of in the real world, I have an umbrella that I carry with me when there's even the slightest chance of rain and I feel like I'm OBLIGATED to use it so I can show up to work looking somewhat presentable.

Why? I don't want to use an umbrella. Even though the rain makes my make-up run down my face and I look like shit, I love the feeling because it makes me feel like everyone else can see almost how shitty I feel. If I'm soaked through and I look like shit, then they'll all get concerned and ask if I'm okay or if I want to go home. But if I carry an umbrella like I'm supposed to, I end up hiding from that perfect opportunity to show people what's going on. I can't show it to them. They don't want to know.

But then, of course, there's the opposite problem as well. If I don't carry an umbrella and I show up at work looking like shit, I'll feel completely vulnerable like I've left half my facade at home since my make-up has been ruined. I'll feel uncomfortable and I'll try to avoid everyone for the rest of the day. Why the hell is this such a big problem? Why can't I just get wet and look like hell and feel at one with the shit that's falling from the sky without having to hide it all?

Argh.

I don't know if that made any sense at all.

In any case, I was thinking about what you said about your therapist and you having little helmets to put on so he could know how your brain works and how to fix it. I think if he actually DID get the opportunity to swim around in your brain for a little while, he'd get scared out of his wits, take off the helmet, and run away screaming. If he doesn't understand it, he can't and WON'T. And he sure as hell wouldn't know what to do about it. But it would be nice if it worked.

I don't think shrinks have any way of knowing what it's really like. The last time I went, I was talking to the dude about you and how much I love having someone who can understand and all, and he got this look on his face much like the look people give kids when they're associated with the term "puppy love," like it's all cutesy and swirling with innocent happiness and shit. And then you know what he said? His exact words were, "It's just as good as an antidepressant, isn't it?"

What the fuck is that?! I gave him some kind of fucked up look that he must've recognized because he quickly caught himself and said, "Well, I shouldn't say that; that's like comparing apples and oranges."

Pause here for dramatic effect of allowing the stupidity of the statement to sink in.

Apples and oranges? He's comparing in ANY WAY AT ALL the similarities between what I feel about you and the way those damn drugs make my brain feel? WHAT?!! I wanted to scream at him. It's COMPLETELY different. The two ideas shouldn't even be put together in the same paragraph, let alone in a comparison. I suppose I can't really blame him for being mentally sound, but goddamn, it’s frustrating as hell.

I have a concert tonight for this class that's been dragging me down into the dark depths of responsibility. It's better than yesterday, though, because yesterday we had a dress rehearsal and it took everything I had to drag myself there. I didn't need a rehearsal, and I sure as hell didn't need the hour and a half wait beforehand. I had an hour and a half after work before I had to show up to rehearsal, so I went to a bar and got blitzed, and then I was walking to the T and some homeless dude started harassing me. It was hard enough for me to walk, and he had to fucking come up and try to strike up a conversation with me and walk me across the street telling me I look like a model and asking me if I had a boyfriend. Oh, the joys of the city. It wasn't that he was really doing anything terribly WRONG, but I sure as hell didn't feel like talking to him. He was even being nice to me, and I just wanted to turn to him and scream, "Leave me the fuck alone!" But I eventually ended up at rehearsal half-drunk and pissed at the world, wanting nothing more than to just go home. I was so goddamn convinced I wasn't going to make it through the rehearsal, and all I could think about was going home to lay down on the futon with my blanket and my puppy to stare at the wall for hours before finally drifting off into sleep. I was practically in tears because I wanted to go home so badly and no one could understand why I couldn't bear to be there. Goddamn responsibilities.

Well, just thought I'd share. I hope all is well with you. It's only a week and a day until I see you, and even though that sounds close enough, I still feel like I'm crawling through mud trying to get there. I hope to hear from you soon.

I love you.
Perdita