Incest

Back in Montpellier, I telephone her, my anxiety builds, several calls and hang-ups later, I tell her it would have been really nice if we had prepared, the two of us, a beautiful Christmas for Léonore, her mother, mine, André, and Frédéric, of course. On the 24th, Claude would have taken Léonore on the 25th, we would have gone on peacefully, we would have spent a quiet day, we would have gone to the movies or taken a nap. Impossible, concepts like family, godchildren, obligations to people who have always been there, it’s not like things are going to change all of a sudden, just because I’m there, like they’ll change at all. It’s all normal, it’s all considered completely normal. I’m the one who’s raving. All I need to do is look around me. She was talking to me about the civil solidarity pact just a few weeks earlier, I remind her. You have to keep this shift in mind. I cry, I go to bed, I don’t want to see her anymore, I tell myself I don’t want to see her anymore, I unplug the telephone. The next day, there’s a message, “answer me, please pick up” in a nice voice, “it’s twenty past eleven, pick up the phone.” She calls again, she really wants to spend Christmas with me, she’ll do whatever she can to make it happen. She hopes it won’t cause any scenes, if there are any conflicts, she’ll go to Paris after all. That’s what she tells me. I’m happy, I buy a copy of Marie-Claire, the special New Year’s issue. I tell my mother, I tell Frédéric, I don’t tell Léonore yet, though, “you never know, let’s be cautious.” But I believe Marie-Christine, she’s happy, our first Christmas together. It’s very important. She telephones her aunt, “I can’t bring Mother to Paris.” Her aunt understands. Marie-Christine, delighted, was very wily. She said to her aunt, “Godmother, I’d like to ask you for some advice,” not a bad opening, it worked, Marie-Christine felt very clever. The big nut, Nadine, was still in Acapulco. She telephoned Marie-Christine on Wednesday, the call went badly, Nadine cried, there will be about twenty-five people, but she needs Marie-Christine to bring some lightness to the holiday. Everyone needs her, it’s not possible, she has to come. Twenty-five people and she must be one of them. It’s not possible, you have to come. She cries. She flips the person I was ready to take as my love like a crêpe. The person who calls me, tells me the news on Wednesday around noon. It takes my breath away, I tell her I’m done with her, I can’t, it’s too much, too much is too much. She could at least have waited until after my reading at the CRL. How am I going to manage?

The day of my reading at the CRL

November 26th, the reading has been announced and it has to be good. The 27th will be just as dark, the night of the 27th to the 28th will be terrible.

But the 26th: at 6:30 p.m., I have a reading, it has to be good. It’s a day full of symptoms.

Breathing: Ragged. I can’t get my breath back. Noisy. Desperate panting. Enormous anxiety. It comes from a very deep source, you can feel it.

Insomnia: I take sleeping medication, I can’t sleep. Even when it’s warm, I’m cold under the duvet, I’m shivering, my fingers are blue, my knees are knocking. My lips are dry, purple.

My face: Drawn with fatigue because of the insomnia, vacuous, eyes blank, someone in a forest who can’t see her feet under autumn’s dead leaves. Eyes blank and terrified, what is there to hold onto?

My whole body hurts, my joints, my back, my lips and my temples. But worst of all, I have the feeling that the next five minutes will be terrible.

I don’t know what it is. A neurosis, a psychosis, I’ve got the definitions, I will look them up. I have to go to L’Alironde, maybe not for long. I can’t take it anymore. Besides, I keep repeating the same thing. I say “I can’t take it anymore” or “I can’t stand it any longer.” Even if I’m alone, I tell myself that I can’t take it anymore.

I slap my face. On the 26th I slapped my face in front of the mirror. Not just once, several times. If someone were here, I’d kill him. Nadine. It could have been anyone. Who represents hate. It’s hatred, I call people, I make a lot of telephone calls, I beg (these calls are like gulps of strong liquor to give me a last, I don’t know), I search, I don’t find. There’s no one. Apparently, I’m overdoing it, my reaction is out of proportion. Me, I don’t think so. People find everything normal. When it’s all insane except me. What’s it called when you have that feeling? For the series of telephone calls, here’s a list of the most symptomatic: