Signed in Blood
Part IV:
Bled Dry
>>From: Belacqua
>>To: Perdita
>>Subject: fucked to hell
>>Date: Wed, 10 Jan 2001
Good lord, I am fucking smashed. I can't feel my fingers or my face or anything right now, and it's fucking cooler than shit. I probably could have foregone that last shot I took, but to hell with it. I'm finally out of my head right now and that's all I've been shooting for all day: to get fucked up and fall asleep fucked up without getting sick, so I did another wonderful pacing job to get me to the point where it's late enough to go to sleep without feeling like shit in the morning and still managing to feel a little screwed up for most of the afternoon. But my god, from 5-5:30 I was a total fucking wreck. I haven't broken down like that in a month or two. I don't know where the hell it came from, but it crashed on me like a fucking tsunami. I could hardly breathe all afternoon, and then all of a sudden, I was sobbing uncontrollably and feeling the hot tears running down my cold face and not being able to do anything but moan helplessly and hope that it would stop any minute. It was scary. Lately, it's just been tears and no grimacing or moaning or heaving or sobbing, but this was a full-out crack where all I could do was sit and grit my teeth and try to keep the uncontrollable sounds pouring from my throat quiet enough so someone wouldn't call the police or something and have them take me away.
Right now, all I can do is lay my head down and try not to pass out. This is really fucking crazy. I shouldn't have to do this stupid shit every goddamn motherfucking night. I've told myself over and over again that drinking this much can't do anything but hurt me in the long run, but christ, the short run is so horrible it seems like a drink is all that can keep my mind in one piece and can keep me alive until the next day. I don't have any other crutches to lean on. I just really need to watch the quantity because it is really getting absurd the amount I have to drink to feel anything. I hit the glass about six times today, and you've seen the healthy shots I pour myself. It’s fucking bullshit.
I'm so tired of living in the south. I've convinced myself that if I can wrestle my money away from my parents, I'm fucking leaving. Hell, I've just about convinced myself that I don't give a flying shit whether they give me what's mine or not. My therapist kept saying I needed to take some sort of control over my own life because I have too passive a role in it, and I totally fucking agree with him. I hate being a spectator to everything that is happening to me. I hate not having any say whatsoever as to where I am right now. My parents have no right deciding that shit for me, especially after TELLING ME OUTRIGHT that they'd pay for me to go anywhere I wanted to go and then pulling it back when it was too late to go anywhere except this fucking school. They must think I'm a goddamn idiot if they believe I can't see the way they're manipulating my life to fit into their grand little scheme. Fuck that. It's time my life started belonging to me. That's part of why I drink so much. It sounds weird, but I feel more in control when I'm drunk because I totally control my level of intoxication and there's nothing anyone can do to alter that. Sure, I start to lose control of my mind, but it’s just surrendering one master for another.
I don't remember what was on the page when you read the first draft of "Epithalmion," but this is what I have right now:
Alone beside an empty altar
I stand and watch her blushing
Down the aisle after
A blind, maggot-soaked nag
Whose rusted hooves are crushing
The melted rose petals' curl,
Dropped by some faded flower girl.
She stops, with her scarlet dress
Blowing erratically in the vacuous room.
Throwing back the black veil and slithering tresses,
I feel the spark ignite
My tender heart, and opening the bloom,
I approach her bloated lips with mine
And inhale her pulmonary wine.
When I step back, Charon's
Bony fingers unfurl for
The tarnished coin between my teeth,
And I begin my eternal honeymoon,
Drowning naked in the Lethe.
As I was looking through my notebook tonight, I found several poems that I had totally forgotten I had written. It's really fucking weird how that happens sometimes. I can see that it's in my handwriting, but I look at it, and I can't figure out when in the hell I wrote it, and I don't remember writing it at all. The one that took me most by surprise is called "Reflection on my own death":
After gasping out my existence
For years, my final breath
Is finally on its way.
The darkness is lurking
In the corners of my vision,
Slowly webbing its bony fingers
Into an impenetrable black mesh.
The sound of the ocean
Roars violently in my head
As copper stings the back of my tongue.
I swallow back tears of regret
And look one final time
At the world I will not miss.
The shudder finally comes
That tears me apart, and
My last breath disturbs
A few dust particles which
Rise into the air, circle
And slowly tumble back
As though never moved.
What's really fucked up is that it's written in pencil and I hardly ever write in pencil. There's something that bothers me about what I write being able to be erased.
You are seriously the only thing that kept me alive today. I know what you mean about being thankful someone is alive. As much as I know it hurts you to exist, I'm still so glad you do and that I've had a chance to know you and meet you and be with you and that we’ll have a chance in the future to lower the shade on our lives and slip into the beyond.... I lived through today and I've lived through days worse than today, so I know there's still some fight left in me...enough to get me far enough. If I hadn't kept your image in my mind, I'd be slumped over the edge of the bathtub right now with both wrists slit down to my elbows. And since I've calmed down, I'm relieved that I had your image to keep me around for at least a little while longer...
Anyway, I'm not sure how long I've babbled on here, but I'm sure it's pretty fucking long. Thank you again for calling me today. I was slipping and falling hard. I had to hear your voice, and that leveled me out...for a little while anyway, but that's all I can ever hope for anymore. Whatever gets me through the next hour of the day is saintly to me, and calming me down this afternoon was something that only hearing your voice could do, seeing as how I sobbed all the whiskey out as soon as I drank it down. Thank you.
I love you more than anything, Perdita.
Belacqua
>From: Perdita
>To: Belacqua
>Subject: Re: fucked to hell
>Date: Wed, 10 Jan 2001
Belacqua,
I just spent about two hours writing a new entry for my journal. I don't usually spend that long on it, but I haven't been writing as much as I've wanted lately. I mention this, of course, because most of it is about you again. I haven't been able to think about anything but you since you left on Monday. It's giving my brain that fuzzy, numb feeling I get from the Paxil whenever I get too worked up about something. And it's fucking my vision up something awful. I don't care, though, because I love to think about you.
I'm sorry I wasn't home earlier yesterday to talk to you when you were at your worst. I wish I could've been there with you or been able to do something more to help. You certainly don't have to thank me for calling you back. I'm just glad you called in the first place. You said something yesterday about how normal people wouldn't be able to understand what we're able to give each other, and you're absolutely right. No one could understand. But we're able to give it and understand it and realize how amazing it is, and I don't ever want you to feel like you're inconveniencing me because you want to talk. That's a load of crap. You're NEVER an inconvenience. What we're able to understand in one another is that indefinable sickness of the mind that Artaud talks about and was so desperately trying to explain. I don't think we've found something that's easily found, and in fact I don't think it's SUPPOSED to be found for the sheer danger factor involved, but who the fuck cares? It's something I love, and it's not something I take lightly. Don't ever think you're an inconvenience. I love you unconditionally, and I can't think of anything that could change that.
Well, it's nearly lunchtime and I haven't so much as taken a smoke break yet. I'm so glad that my boss is out of town for the rest of the week, so I've been going nuts on the internet, trying to catch up with everything I haven't had time for lately. So, I think I'm gonna get going here, but I really hope your Wednesday is going better than your Tuesday. I'm so glad you survived yesterday, and I'm glad you were able to keep in mind our agreement. I'm just trudging through life until I get to see you again.
I love you so much.
Perdita