First I should mention that there is nothing wrong with me. At least, nothing a little love in the right place from the right people couldn’t have prevented. To begin with, not trying to make you feel guilty, I was almost destroyed. I loved you more than I’ve loved any woman. When I realized that you didn’t love me after ten years of my being kind and generous, which was always the way I’ve heard people had to be to win the one they love, I felt like dying. The truth is I didn’t know whether I was dead or alive. My eyes couldn’t focus, my ears couldn’t distinguish the difference in sounds, my mouth wouldn’t formulate words, my body was dead on the outside and alive on the inside and everything was trapped inside of emotionally mutilated flesh. But I am not crazy. I knew what was killing me: Ten years of loving and getting nothing in return. As a matter of fact, most of the people in here seem to be here because of a lack of love. Anyhow, the only reason that I know that I’m alive is the humungous pain that penetrates the most un- breachable strongholds of my being, the biggest thing that I’ve ever encountered. So, I figured that I must be alive. And I have been hoping that it’s not permanent. Wine helped a bit, but I was afraid of becoming a drunk. I tried religion, but the more I believed, the more I hurt, and the more deceived I began to feel. Religion kept telling me to be kind and generous, which is how I got into all of this trouble anyway. Nobody tells you to keep your eyes open, especially if that’s what you’re doing with your heart. Seems the thing to do, but most of uS get caught up in the rhetoric. Sorry I had to leave for a minute. They gave me a pill to desensitize me. They do that. They give you these pills that make a zombie out of you, then stick you off in a corner so that they won't have to be bothered with you. Most of them won’t even talk to you. 1 think they’re afraid to hear about the effects of real love, when it goes wrong. They act like they’re afraid to love. They know they would be in the same shape us inmates are in, if it didn’t go right. . . unless they had friends or family to help them through. Something that us on the inside didn’t have, or most of us. There are a few real nuts here. In case you are confused? I have been talking about most of the working staff; the volunteers are simply mad, i.e., crazy. Both are sick. They need to be around people that have problems so that they can feel sane. Time to go to bed. I’ll write more in the morning. Well, good morning. I’ve spent the night thinking. I didn’t get any sleep. But I’ve come to the conclusion, you are some kind of sadistic bitch. I don’t mean that maliciously, either; it’s just a statement of fact. I do hope you continue to read this letter. Any sensitive person wouldn’t have kept someone on the string for ten years. Any sensible person wouldn’t have hung on that long. So, I guess we were both on our own trips. Mine, the donkey. Yours, the carrot and the stick. I have a friend here. He is in love with heroin, even though it is destroying him. That’s the way 1 am about you. I’ll probably always love you and this pain will always be a constant reminder. If you are wondering why I’m writing this letter, I feel like rapping with someone. I feel that you would understand. You and I shared in my movement toward this situation. Sometimes I do wish that I had family to go to. But! I rejected all of them for you. So. It was too late when I really needed them. They put me here. They were kind enough to make me think that it was my choice. I am making friends, though. There is an old man here with emphysema; I give him cigarettes. He loves me. Nobody else will do it for him. Hell, he’s gone too far to stop now. There is another old man whose family put him in here because they didn’t want to take care of him. He talks gibberish. My junkie friend pulls his suspenders, then lets them go. POP! The old man gets mad and shouts gibberish. He likes to let out his frustrations. Soon I am going to have to end this letter. They will be coming to give me shock treatments. They set electrodes to my head—then charge them. They are trying to blow my skull off. Haven’t been responding to therapy, they say. That is, I still remember things. I remember who I am, and why I’m here. They want me to believe that my parents didn’t love me. I know better than that. The only reason I’m here is because I hurt. The shock treatments are supposed to make me forget. Some things just can’t be forgotten. They go too deep. The truth is, I don’t want to forget. I just want to learn to live with it. It’s like malaria. You can go along and feel all right for a while, then all of a sudden, chills, fever. Once you learn to understand it, accept it, live with it, it doesn’t hurt as bad. So I’ve been told. Some guy was sitting with nothing to do so he asked me to go into the shower and let him suck me off. What do you do in a situation like that? I just told him not today, maybe next week. Oh yes, shock treatments. I’ve had some already. Three for sure, along with the medicine I don’t need. I take it, though. If I don’t, they will give me a shot. I would spit it out but there are so many people in here that if they see me they would tell and it would be that much longer until I got my shit together and got out. I don’t need any extra hassles. They give me enough as it is. They won’t let me sleep in in the mornings. They say I’m trying to escape from reality. If they only knew how hard it is for me to sleep, they’d bring my breakfast to me in bed. Sometimes I save my medication and crush it. My friends and I snort it like street drugs, for something to do. One guy always bugs me, though; he thinks it’s cocaine. But sometimes we do get street drugs, mostly grass, sometimes speed. Usually when someone goes on pass, they will bring back something. Sometimes we can get drugs from an aide, depending on who it is. A couple are pretty cool, but not too many; you have to know how to manipulate them. One aide gives me grass twice a week and consistently loses money to me on the pool table. But he’s still a screw (jailer). If there was trouble he would still lock me up or take me to get electrocuted. Well, I have to go to group. We sit in there and complain about life. If you don’t complain, they accuse you of being rebellious. So I go in and burn their ears. From there, they will take me and fry my brain and I won’t be any good for a couple of days. So I’ll mail this off to you now. No regrets. Love, Charles 22
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