>>From: Belacqua
>>To: Perdita
>>Subject: Re: it's fucking SNOWING
>>Date: Wed, 20 Dec 2000

I've had problems with two extremes of therapists. I just flat out didn't like my first therapist and didn't feel like he was interested in my well-being at all, and that's why I couldn't tell him anything, and this therapist is so nice and seems so genuinely interested that I don't want to tell him things because I don't want him to feel worried or anything. I feel guilty when I swear around him, but sometimes I can't help it. So, either way, I'm stuck and I can't get anything out. I automatically turn into public Belacqua that wears the normal mask, the Belacqua who doesn't have crazy, violent, self-destructive thoughts and who cares about poetry because of language and not because he is morbidly fascinated with the workings of twisted, genius minds. Now he's going to tell my shrink about the cutting, and I don't know how the hell I'm going to deal with that because I CAN'T explain it at all, and I don't want to even try.

Right now, I'm writing a letter to leave on my friend’s door to try and explain something, but who knows? I just don't care anymore. The fewer people I leave in my wake, the better. If no one showed up at my funeral, if I had some sort of conscious soul after death, I don't think I would be very bothered by that. I know I'm not going to live to my twenty-first birthday. I'm fairly sure I'm not even going to make it to next Christmas. There's still some part of me that wants to think that's sad, but it's not. It's such a relief to be that resolved, to know I'm almost done. T.S. Eliot, in “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” has Prufrock say, "I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker, and in short, I was afraid," and I don't get that sensation at all. That's part of why I felt so calm last night. I can almost count the days until I won't exist anymore, and it's amazing.

I'm definitely going home this afternoon. I'm not exactly sure when, but it’s probably whenever I can get myself motivated enough to put my stuff in the car. I'm usually so excited about Christmas. I usually look forward to it, and it's going to come and go this year and seem like it never even happened. I'm almost choosing to ignore it this year. It's of no consequence. I'm just waiting until it's over so I can come back here and kill time until I fly up to visit you. It's amazing how invincible you feel when you tell yourself you're going to die soon. There's nothing that can happen to me right now. It's weird. I can't wait to be with you and feel what it's like to be that close to someone again. I'm looking at January 3rd as the travel date. If that's not cool, let me know. I haven't set anything for certain, yet.

I'm glad the Remeron is helping you. I think it's making me really, really mellow. I'm going to play with my dosages over the holiday break. If I break down, big deal: I ruin Christmas. I think I need to add Wellbutrin to counteract the lazy, apathetic feeling of the Remeron. Or maybe that's just the depression. I don’t know. I hope your day goes well and I'm glad it snowed for you. I think the weather phenomenon that is most like me is fog. I always feel like a heavy cloud.

I love you, Perdita.
Belacqua

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>From: Perdita
>To: Belacqua
>Subject: Re: it's fucking SNOWING
>Date: Wed, 20 Dec 2000

Belacqua,

Right now, I'm in the middle of what I hate the most: mind-numbing, uncontrollable rage for everything and anything on the face of the planet, as is probably evident from the entry I just added to my journal. I feel like SHIT. I want to die RIGHT NOW, and it's KILLING ME that I have to just sit and wait for this to end. I was fully prepared to go shopping this evening after work so I could FINALLY get gifts for my family, but once again, I just don't think it's going to happen. The thought of actually dragging my ass down to the mall seems like the biggest fucking chore on Earth. It would be significantly more beneficial for me to just go the fuck home for another evening of TV and beer. Goddammit.

Well, now that my boss interrupted me and I had to convince him that I am in fact doing something he asked, the oppressive cloud has lifted a little. The Remeron makes my vision go completely screwy. I'm sitting here typing, and everything seems shaky, like I'm bouncing up and down or rollerblading down a hill. Have you ever been rollerblading? I've only done it once or twice, but I remember very specifically going down a hill and wondering how anyone could ever want to do that because it fucks with your vision so much that EVERYTHING looks blurry, and if you're gonna run into something full-speed, you won't really even be able to see it very well. So, right now, I feel rather like I'm about ready to run full-speed into something without even knowing I'm about to hit it.

Belacqua, I'm curious as to how you feel about something. Do you think it's at all possible that part of the reason we're so intensely preoccupied and convinced that dying is a good thing is directly related to the meds tuning down any sort of instinct we might have to LIKE things? I mean, before my meds, sure, I wanted to die REALLY BADLY, but I still had things I liked every once in awhile. Now that my meds have attempted to kill every emotion I have, I find that I could fucking care less about ANYTHING, and that's part of my newest problem. I'm just curious if you have any input on that one.

You know, I don't feel like I have all that much control over when I'm gonna die. Yeah, I expect it'll be suicide. Yeah, I expect it'll be within the year. But I don't know why, and I just expect it's gonna HAPPEN. It's not like I feel I have much of a choice in the matter. It's just the only way things could ever work out right. It's right, and there are no two ways about it.

January 3rd for you to come to visit sounds fine to me. I'll be back in town on the 1st, so anytime thereafter should be good. It's not like I have a life or anything, so whatever's good for you is good for me. I just wish whatever day you pick was already here.

I hope to hear from you soon.
I love you so much.
Perdita