10/20/77

Dear friend,

I hope my last letter reached you. If it didn’t, this one is going to seem like complete nonsense. Honestly, I’m really getting worried about you. I know that you would not just choose to ignore me, you are not that type of person. You used to get worried sick about how it would come off every time you wanted to say something while I was talking. So I know that if you haven’t responded, something must be happening. The postal service must have messed up or, the most likely option, your brain is hurting you again.

To help you seems like an impossible task when I’m not there. By the time my letters reach you your brain has already moved onto five new things. I know your family is trying to help, but we both know that they can’t. They can’t imagine what it’s like to have every ounce of your being screaming out at the unquantifiable wrongness. We can and I’m so sorry that you have to know this pain. I know just how hard it is for you. I don’t blame you for using anything you can to lessen it, neither does anyone else. We all get it. 

Do you remember the night you got drunk on shine at Tommy Eiseman’s house? I think it was the weekend before Thanksgiving junior year, although it may have been the weekend afterwards. I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t remember that night, especially with how much you drank. Must have been five shares worth. We talked a lot that night about a lot of different things. About how my confessions the month before had made you feel. Honestly, it might be better if the alcohol kept you from remembering any of it. You hated yourself for saying any of it and you made me swear to never bring any of it up again. I hate to break that promise, but I feel like I have to. For your own good.

Tiana, if you don’t write me back by the 26th, I’ll be down there on Friday.

Sam