Toastie ‘97

I can only imagine that you’re thinking that you’re not going to be to comfortable with reading whatever I’m about to write. You’re right, because I don’t see anyway to make this easy except by not writing you at all. But I wouldn’t be able to bear seeing you anymore, and perhaps that might upset you eventually. If it matters at all, I didn’t decide to come talk to you tonight until you were asleep. So at least you’re getting a good night sleep right now. I doubt you’d sleep very well if I had made you talk to me tonight.

I basically assumed tonight that you must have known that I was upset, but you simply weren’t going to bother trying to help me anymore, because you probably told yourself that you had to draw the line. This is pretty logical. I understand so completely. You’re right in thinking this because the truth is that I think you’re the only person who could have helped me tonight, and I know that this is wrong and unfair to expect of you.

I had the worst night I’ve had so far at Duke tonight. As soon as Natalie asked me if I wanted to come with everyone to dinner, I knew I might feel a little uncomfortable, but I figured I was like a bleeding wound that had to have a lot of alcohol applied to it to stop the bleeding. If I didn’t try to go out with everyone, I’d be left bleeding. If I went, I’d be opening myself up to the same anguish that I experienced tonight.

I’m not sure I can explain how I felt to you, but I know that there’s no one else who could possibly understand. I was going out with a bunch of people I’m not really friends with, who I haven’t hung out with very much. You’re the only person I would feel comfortable talking to if not for the fact that I’d obviously be hanging all over you if I were to try talking to you. You would not have appreciated that, and I would have known that. I have been in this same situation a million times before. As we walked to The Pub, I was so aware of the fact that there were a couple of masses of people walking, and I didn’t belong to either mass. I was a piece that didn’t fit in anywhere. I could imagine the aerial shot of us walking- two moving blobs plus a little piece of waste not belonging to either blob. I have had this happen to me a million times before. On the walk to The Pub, I had flashbacks to just about all of these million times. Always just as painful, and actually more painful everytime it happens.

I’ll tell you something now that I’ve never told anyone, and I think that’s because it would convince someone that I am, in fact, insane. Ever since I was about ten years old, I’ve imagine my life as a continuous television show or movie, and I’m always conjuring up background music and imagining camera angles to make that imaginary viewer get the full impact of how I’m feeling. I swear this is really true. I play depressing soap opera or movie theme music over my life. I imagine that imaginary viewer seeing the flashbacks I see. Tonight, I heard some of the loudest, most intricate, most upsetting music that I’ve ever heard, as my mind worked at a pace it’s never worked before to being me images of my past, haunting, depressing images of things that repeat themselves now. I doubt this is possible, but does this make sense? Does any other human being on the entire planet do what I do? Every person I encounter in my life is a character on my show. One of my only personal religious beliefs is that, after I die, I’ll be able to watch episodes of my life, directed exactly how I imagined them, with the music and the camera shots and the flashbacks and the voice-overs for all of my thoughts. I imagine that the viewers of my show are forced to watch my show, because I would have certainly stopped watching a long time ago. I mean, the viewer is forced to witness virtually the same plots over and over again. But I hope the viewers have hope that someday David ——- will straighten out his life. As soon as Susan Barnett was introduced to the show, the viewers thought, “Oh, no, not again,” because they knew Dave would screw up again. And gradually they realized that Susan was something special. Of course, I can only imagine that the concept that there have been “others” must contribute to the concept that I am some kind of psychopath. Well, I’m not. I don’t think you want me to explain to you again why I care about you so much. Back to my point about my insane concept of making my life into some kind of imaginary, albeit depressing entertainment. You know, I never even mentioned this idea in my journal in 4 1/2 years of writing my journal. I was afraid anyone who might ever read it would think I was crazy. But it’s something I don’t know if I’ll ever stop doing, unless I have some kind of labotomy and my mind is drastically altered.

I’m not sure if I even was able to explain at all why I got into the mood I got into tonight. All I know is that I thought at a speed and in a way that I never thought before. There’s some kind of power that my mind has, but I can’t use it productively.

I was curled up in my bed for 2 1/2 hours after I got back to my room. I had absolutely no idea how to proceed with my life. I forgot to tell you that I had more suicidal thoguhts tonight. I wanted to get hit my the cars on the way to and from the Pub. On the way there, I wanted to just fall into some bottomless pit, figuring nobody would realize I was gone. I wanted to just run away, but then you’d all realize I was gone. I tried very had, believe it or not, to not seem too upset.

So where am I now? Maybe CAPS can help me. I’ll certainly try. But what about you? God, I know you can’t help me, but I seem to be asking for your help, and I guess I am. I feel so bad about this, and I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I really needed to talk to you tonight. If anyone can understand that fact that I have psychedelic flashbacks and see my life as a TV show, you can. (I’m not saying that I expect you to.) I couldn’t call you or come see you tonight, though. I just figured that you would have asked me if something was wrong if you really felt you could deal with whatever I might have to say. I know you’re not my guardian angel and you really can’t help me with this. I just feel like you’re the only person I can really tell all of this to.

Once again, because of my mental problems, I created this wedge between us that wasn’t there just yesterday, a wedge that you, once again, had nothing to do with creating. I felt tonight like you’re patience with me was gone. I can understand if it is gone. I guess I just want to know.

I’m sorry again. You must wonder what you did to deserve having to deal with someone as deranged as me.

I’m really glad you got some sleep tonight.

I might as well let you know that I wrote, “Susan is a nice person.” You could have probably guessed that. Maybe you finally realized that tonight, and that’s why you erased it. I figured you might keep it on the board since people wouldn’t know it was from me.

Now what? You probably don’t know what to say. I guess write me a letter if you’re just tired of trying to talk to me, although I’d rather just talk to you. Although you might just be tired of trying to communicate with me completely.