Another Letter
This time the letter is sent by post. No email here. It's sent to Lucy at Bartos. There's no address on the outside of the envelope. The envelope is a simple, plain, and white thing. The paper inside it is college ruled notebook paper. It's written with a black, ballpoint pen. The handwriting is somewhat florid and full of curves and little flourishes that make it seem pretty, if somewhat less legible.
Dear Lucy,
It seems odd to address it 'dear' because it isn't like we had that kind of relationship. But at the same time? It seems right, too. So I kept it. Things are progressing at Boozehol Boot Camp here and so far... Okay, so this sucks. It sucks so hard. It sucks harder than anything I have ever, ever experienced and that includes the time John shoved me in an open grave and broke my already gimpy ankle.
I wish I could say that I was taking this all well. I'm not. I'm trying not to fight the therapists. I'm trying to do what they tell me. But it hurts. It physically hurts. They can't give me anything that's strong enough to battle the pain in my ankle and one of the withdrawal symptoms is a hypersensitivity to pain. The doctors say that'll get better with time. I'm hoping that they're right. At least I've gotten past the sweating and the constipation and the itching. I had a bad infection when I got here from where I usually shot up. They had to remove half of the toenail to fix it.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you this stuff. I think I just need to tell someone and there's no one else to tell. How do I write Sammie or John with this? I can't put that burden on Dot when the truth is, she's got her own fucked up to deal with and all. But you said you'd been here. I'm guessing I won't shock you. John knows the medical facts, but at the same time, he isn't the guy you go to for confession. Not that I can't. I could. John would read every word. But still. I've put him through enough. And Sammie? I just can't talk about that yet.
I think the worst of everything really is that I feel so goddamn guilty and useless. I feel so ridiculous and self-absorbed. I feel stupid. I feel like if I'd only listened to someone sooner I wouldn't be here. And the thing is? It's true. How do you comfort yourself when the bad things you're whispering in your mind are true? I really am that jackass. I really am that selfish prick who let his demons cause a whole mess of pain for everyone that he loves. But at the same time, I don't think I could've helped it. I don't think I could've stopped it.
The staff psychiatrist is saying that I'm bipolar. He says that when I get into that place where I feel like I'm a God and I can do wrong and I push myself beyond all human limits at everything I do? That I'm what's called manic. And that those down spots where I just want to die are depression. I knew I had problems with depression, but I guess I just left it at that. I've had a lot in life to be depressed about and stuff. He says the drugs, the drinking, and the sex are just ways to try and self-medicate my problems. I never doubted that was true.
The thing is, and maybe it's the reason I wrote, they want to put me on medication. They want me to take Tegretol. I don't know what to do. On one hand, if it would help that would be fabulous. But on the other hand, the side effects are supposed to be pretty killer. The worst part is that the doctor says it could dampen my creativity. It could also kill my libido entirely. The thing is, it won't make it go away. It won't fix the other psychological and emotional problems that I have. All it will do is be one more way to try and chemically castrate my DNA.
Do you have any advice? I'm just...I don't know what to do and I don't know who to ask. I thought of you because once upon a time, when I didn't do anything to deserve it, you were good to me and you gave me some good advice I should've followed.
Sorry to dump on you.
Byron
Dear Lucy,
It seems odd to address it 'dear' because it isn't like we had that kind of relationship. But at the same time? It seems right, too. So I kept it. Things are progressing at Boozehol Boot Camp here and so far... Okay, so this sucks. It sucks so hard. It sucks harder than anything I have ever, ever experienced and that includes the time John shoved me in an open grave and broke my already gimpy ankle.
I wish I could say that I was taking this all well. I'm not. I'm trying not to fight the therapists. I'm trying to do what they tell me. But it hurts. It physically hurts. They can't give me anything that's strong enough to battle the pain in my ankle and one of the withdrawal symptoms is a hypersensitivity to pain. The doctors say that'll get better with time. I'm hoping that they're right. At least I've gotten past the sweating and the constipation and the itching. I had a bad infection when I got here from where I usually shot up. They had to remove half of the toenail to fix it.
I'm not sure why I'm telling you this stuff. I think I just need to tell someone and there's no one else to tell. How do I write Sammie or John with this? I can't put that burden on Dot when the truth is, she's got her own fucked up to deal with and all. But you said you'd been here. I'm guessing I won't shock you. John knows the medical facts, but at the same time, he isn't the guy you go to for confession. Not that I can't. I could. John would read every word. But still. I've put him through enough. And Sammie? I just can't talk about that yet.
I think the worst of everything really is that I feel so goddamn guilty and useless. I feel so ridiculous and self-absorbed. I feel stupid. I feel like if I'd only listened to someone sooner I wouldn't be here. And the thing is? It's true. How do you comfort yourself when the bad things you're whispering in your mind are true? I really am that jackass. I really am that selfish prick who let his demons cause a whole mess of pain for everyone that he loves. But at the same time, I don't think I could've helped it. I don't think I could've stopped it.
The staff psychiatrist is saying that I'm bipolar. He says that when I get into that place where I feel like I'm a God and I can do wrong and I push myself beyond all human limits at everything I do? That I'm what's called manic. And that those down spots where I just want to die are depression. I knew I had problems with depression, but I guess I just left it at that. I've had a lot in life to be depressed about and stuff. He says the drugs, the drinking, and the sex are just ways to try and self-medicate my problems. I never doubted that was true.
The thing is, and maybe it's the reason I wrote, they want to put me on medication. They want me to take Tegretol. I don't know what to do. On one hand, if it would help that would be fabulous. But on the other hand, the side effects are supposed to be pretty killer. The worst part is that the doctor says it could dampen my creativity. It could also kill my libido entirely. The thing is, it won't make it go away. It won't fix the other psychological and emotional problems that I have. All it will do is be one more way to try and chemically castrate my DNA.
Do you have any advice? I'm just...I don't know what to do and I don't know who to ask. I thought of you because once upon a time, when I didn't do anything to deserve it, you were good to me and you gave me some good advice I should've followed.
Sorry to dump on you.
Byron