12/07/77

Sam,

Drop it. Please, just drop it. It doesn’t matter that I’d be happier because I can not do a damn thing about it. I am stuck this way and it ain’t gonna change. I am not you. I am John G. O’Riley and I’m going to be him until the day I die. I am learning to live with that fact and I ask that you do the same. I know that up north things may be different for you, but I ain’t up north. I’m not her. I can’t be her. I can’t be anyone if I’m dead and I’m as good as dead if I go around as her. That is just a fact I just have to live with. We both know happiness doesn't matter for shit here. Just look at Becca. She went off and got happy and now I haven’t been allowed to see her in five years. I don’t even know if she still lives in Kentucky anymore! Surviving is the only thing that matters. Happiness is for the dead and the rich and I ain’t neither. As far as I know, anyway.

Hell, maybe I am actually dead. I don’t feel alive. It’s just day after day after day of doing the same shit that I hate. This could be my own personal hell. Another day stuck in this fucking awful town and this fucking awful body. I can’t get out and I can’t get up the balls to just end it. I don’t deserve to end it though. This is what I get for ever giving those thoughts the time of day.

I don’t think I’ll ever really understand you Sam. You just do things. You don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks or says. You just do. Been like that the whole time I known you. I just think too much for that I guess. I’m so tired of thinking Sam. So damn tired. All I can do anymore is think. My brain just never shuts up. All I want is for it to shut up about her and about everything.

I don’t want to stop writing to you. More often than I’d like to say, it feels like getting your next letter is the only thing that keeps me moving forward. I hope that don’t sound wrong because it’s true. You’re my best friend Sam and I love hearing from you. But, I can’t keep doing this. I have to just completely remove her from my thoughts and my life. It’s gonna kill me but I’m gonna throw out the suitcase next week. You gotta find something else to write to me about or just don’t write until you do. I’m sorry, but I’m too weak. I can’t have two lives.

John