Chapter XIII

A rag doll coming to life. Augustine spills her heart out to William from her darkest place to her most positive views.

Dear Weaver,
The name sticks, like the wine inside of the back of my tongue. The night has not grown old yet and my head feels like it is on fire. I have moved out of the state completely, to Columbus, Ohio; different community, different people, nice people, strange people all around me like the sound of the damn water leaking from my neighbors.
Please stop. Not what you are reading, but prepare yourself for something very frantic. I am in stillness inside of my head now, in the dead of the night wishing I had someone beside me to keep me in control. I cannot think and I cannot type. God, my head hurts so much I feel like this is worse than withdrawals is going to be.
I am finally away from all the drugs that were slowly killing me and turning me into paleness, skin bones, blue toned. The pain is spreading down to my neck and shoulders. I knew this was coming after my panic attack earlier today. I knew cold turkey was dangerous so I tapered down to 1.25 milligrams. From 2.50 milligrams to 1.25 in a week. What a huge jump I am putting myself in danger, I know, and I have told you this before, but I would rather die and seize forever than be addicted to such a s****y drug. I may have a fear I cannot escape this demon but god damn, it he is attacking me this very second. Screaming in my head as I am still tapering, yet I am substituting it with a bottle of wine to feel the effects. Is that cheating? I don't care. This to me is not much at all, but why do I feel like this? I even drank a half bottle of wine. My head needs to I will be back in tact in eight days. My interview for my job is tomorrow. I have to transfer to another job and serve again. No books were sold like crazy, like I expected, so guess f*****g what. Guess what? I am sticking to my dream of being a nurse practitioner. My classes begin soon and I hope one day I can run into you again before that to prove to you and I, I am not the person I appear to be. I know it will be sooner, my senses are not always right, but 99% of the time they are.
I remember when I told you how surprised I was that you still even talk to me. Here I am still embarrassed of the writings I've been keeping from you. They sound like a sixteen year old's letters to her crush from years ago but it is feels deeper than that and far more real. I dont care for some reason if you read these anymore now that it is out in front of your ebony brown eyes that I have yet to look into and read again. It has been too long and I hope you are doing better than the last time I read you. But me? I am a different case since you saw me last.. annoying, loud, and full of life. Nobody else gives a s**t.
I still think about sitting in that bathtub and bleeding to death every day, but I will never do that again. I promised you I will be sober. And I hope I will be alive. These words that I am typing now are spinning images of what I have already tried doing to myself, and yet, they are the paintings of what you will read. And when you do, I know you will be here one day. I saw it.
Music. Wine. Good ol' mary jane. Sobriety from pills at its best. No more taking klonopin sublingually, or shooting anything up my beautiful veins. I mean hell, my whole life flows through them- every single neuron within its blood cell. Why should I poison them and shrivel them to their roots of death. Oh, Weaver, I still cannot believe if you really like me or not, ever since I was a stranger. I'm a mess. I wasn't before. You have never seen this side of me. You like me? Please convince me that you do, because I know things and sense them as far as the eyes can see, sober or not.
I was just a simple stranger, never was beautiful, then suddenly you say you like me. I don't get it. I don't know if I like myself. Is it real? I can't f*****g trust anyone anymore. I need to trust myself first maybe I can trust what you say. Nobody knows what goes through my paranoid brain. I only know. That is only one of the reasons of why I hate myself so much, I want to f*****g die inside. I want to break down every shattered piece of me into smaller pieces until they enter every f*****g nerve and artery in my body until it reaches my already deadened heart, as I lay in my very own death bed- alone. It hurts and the pain in my chest is now sinking deeper. I can hardly breathe but I want another cigarette. I lack of emotions to cry so my wrists are now on fire as I am unleashing it all onto this letter. I am sorry Weaver, for this dark letter. I promise you better things will come my way, and your way as well. This happy hippie everyone sees, s**t. I only want to help others and myself too. You did tell me to help myself, so here I am admitting to you my thoughts and regrets and how much stupid s**t I put myself through since you left the Bistro in Cheyenne. I just hope you have forgiven me.
I am crazy see? I have searched for help, every where I could. I cannot afford it. I feel like it is a sign that I am much stronger than any b***h in there. I need all the money I can now to survive in this big city. I can't end up in a f*****g psych ward and I refuse take anti-depressants because I'll end up hanging myself this very second. It is not hard I have planned many, many ways to die, Weaver, MANY. I know it's scary but it's what I get for messing with benzodiazepines in the first place. Manic depression. It is only 9:09 PM, and this very second, I am counting down the days to sobriety. Six weeks they said! Hah! I can defeat it in less! My head feels like it is internally bleeding again. I am so depressed, nobody would ever get it. I could be made fun of, I don't give a s**t, Weaver, I have been used, abused, and here I am using and abusing anything and everyone and everything in sight. It is what makes me a terrible f*****g person but it's what they all get.
It's what they get. I don't give a s**t about money or friends. I just need to fix. I need it to feel normal and alive. My rag doll body has been through more than you or anyone will ever know. It's what I feel like. A rag doll. Period. No one gives a s**t about me and my biggest fear is you won't either. What if you run away too? Just like everyone else, run away from this crazy drug addict, run! F**k off world. I'd rather sing a sappy love song and tell them about how much I still love what is around me and how grateful I am for what I have. I kept giving and giving away so much I felt like I gave away all of my healing gifts, my soul; you could compare it to selling your soul to the devil...I fear to lose my battles, but I am still determined and alive. I am starting over and rebuilding myself as you turn to the next page, please believe me when I say I can do it on my own I don't need anyone. And you are already at that stage. Once one finds themselves they can connect to the other and build something even greater, so they say. Isolation is the most important thing for one to go insane, what if the insane are really the sane ones? This is a toast from me to you, Weaver, for the day you and I shall meet again, and my life will get better before we both know it.

Tears and Cheers,
Augustine