Thanks for swinging by to see me and for writing. That stuff you printed off the internet was hilarious. It’s good to be able to read what’s going on in your life and your thoughts and feelings about things. It seems most of my letters to Mom and Kevin, and theirs in return to me, deal mostly with exchange of news rather than impressions and the way things affect your life. I’m not sure if this is simply habit or if we are more uncomfortable sharing things on paper than in person. On my part, it’s because most of the things that go on here affect you negatively and I’ve never been comfortable sharing feelings and thoughts with others. Usually I don’t even think them through for myself.
That’s part of the reason that I feel so disconnected from life out there. Your lives are constantly connected by face to face meetings, email, video, phones, and shared experience. Since I have so little of this, I almost feel like a stranger — even though I’m closer to you and Mom and Kevin than to anyone else. This is also one of the main reasons for my long, somewhat awkward silences in the visiting rooms. I simply don’t know what to say, and I’ve never been in the habit of asking questions to fill in my gaps of knowledge about what’s going on with other people. Being in here only makes it worse.
Aside from a few people I generally don’t want to know anything about the people I’m surrounded by. Not only that, but the way we relate to each other is completely different than the way people in the world relate. Everything from the language, to behavior, to what is tolerable to say and what is completely out of line. I’ll basically have to relearn it. By the time I get out, I’ll have been inside for almost 7 years with the exception for the state hospital and the few days I was out when I robbed that bank. I’m glad of the fresh start I’ll have to make, bit it really scares the shit out of me too.
I hate to say it, but I have a pretty cushy life in here. After your first couple of years, you stop thinking of all the stuff you’re missing on the street, (well — you think about it, but it’s almost like it’s not real.) You can think of it about the same way you’d like to have a million dollars. Basically your entire existence in here is day to day with a few dreams of getting out or going to camp or something. Your moods and hopes are defined daily. Today I hope the fries aren’t soggy for lunch tomorrow and that I can get 4 miles in 30 minutes on the track tonight. (30:42 is my best time so far.)
So like I said, for prison I’ve got a good set up. 8 hours of one of the best jobs on the compound. Enough responsibility to make me feel useful, but not enough to stress about. Due to the fact that I’ve got almost no competition to my drawing, I’m more intelligent and have a better disposition than the average inmate; I’m one of the more known people on the compound. I don’t think I’ve ever been the best at any given thing in any given situation before in my entire life, so it feels pretty damn good when people tell me they won’t get cards or drawings from anyone else, and that they can’t believe some of the stuff I come up with. It feels especially good since, for the first time, I feel like I deserve it (most of it anyways.) I’ve never been good at accepting thanks or compliments. Even the best out of 1200 is better than the just one more guy who draws that I’ll be when I get out. There is also the fact that life in here is easy. With no trust, comes no responsibility, comes no stress. I don’t have to worry about money or the future or anything.
Getting out and having to start at the bottom with having wasted the last 10 years is both the most exciting and terrifying thing I can think of. The last thing I want to end up as is a guy just a step away from being broke, no chance at retirement, stuck with some woman who I either attached myself to out of desperation (6 1/2 years of celibacy builds a lot of desperation) or somehow talked into a lasting relationship and slowly drug down with me — a person with hope. With having no non-artistic skills, a record almost as long as my arm, and a credit score of negative 3,000,002 — I don’t see a whole lot of roads that don’t lead to the gutter.
On the other hand when I get out, I’ll be able to gather a whole new circle of friends, a new job, new place — almost new everything. As much as is possible for a person, I can structure my life to the way I want. I have no ties to old girlfriends, kids, no established career that I’m trapped in. Not a whole lot of people get the chance (or are forced into) making a complete restart.
Anyway, enough of my rambling. This letter probably sounds pretty disjointed and wandering since I’m writing over the course of a weeks worth of lunch breaks. (That’s the only time I’m not working, drawing, or exercising.) I’m including a visiting application for Jen. No one seems to know what could have happened to the other one. So, fill this one out and I’ll check my list every now and again to see if she’s been added to it. If a few months go by and she’s still not on it (it takes longer if you not part of my PSI), I’ll see if I can get someone to find out why. In the meantime, maybe if we hope and sacrifice some peanut butter sandwiches, we’ll get lucky.
I’ll try to write a little more often. Until next time — take care.