Friday, April 8, 2011

did some digging

In Jill's notebook, she mentions a teacher who saved her from the Slender Man. Miss Mary, she said was her name. She says elsewhere in the book that she went to Kyrene Del Norte elementary school, and that she was six when she was attacked. So I looked the school up online and called them to ask who was teaching first grade in 1996-98, because I couldn't remember when Jill was born exactly. They told me that they'd had three teachers during that time: Ellen Shapiro, Don Murphy, and Mary Gomez. I asked if I could get in contact with Ms. Gomez, pretended I was writing a paper about early education, and the secretary at the school told me that Mary Gomez had died, tragically, in an accidental house fire in 1999.

I hung up the phone.

Miss Mary saved Jill and she died.

Grandma Alice saved me and she died.

Kevin saved me and Andrew got in a car crash, and he's been in a coma for a week.

I can't do this much longer. I'm taking ativans faster than my perscription will allow, and drinking every day. And I haven't really been eating much because if I don't eat I can get drunk off less and I can save to get my car fixed and visit Andrew, and besides I'm not that hungry anyway. It's easier to deal with things if you sleep through most of the day. It's easier to live when you're not concious. Something has to change. Something has to be...I'd almost prefer when Harriett was still out because she was sharp, real, something I could fight. This is like being buried slowly by a machine. Nothing I do will have any effect. I can't solve any puzzles because there are no puzzles, just Andrew's coma and the tentacles thrashing outside my window if they're really there at all.

Am I crazy? It's not the first time I've asked this. If you look through these entries I look crazy. I'd say the pictures I drew when I was little are proof but they're not. What if this is me bringing up memories of my imaginary friend to deal with my real freind's death? What if this monster shit is just my mind finally breaking, right, some ghost called up and me believing it because my brain chemistry just happens to be that tiny bit off, and shifting? I know you can call up fake memories. I wrote about it. I wrote all of this. I could be lying though, I could be telling myself lies. Maybe even the comments aren't real. I never looked up mental illnesses, never went to therapy after I got diagnosed. I hate it. I want to say it's not who I am but it keeps coming back and back and back...I used to cut my legs up when I was sixteen and now I keep looking at knives like they'll fix things for me. I used to get drunk and cry wildly like a little kid haaving a temper tantrum and now I just get drunk and stare at the wall. Like I'm catatonic which is not a sane thing to do.

drunk again, now. Started sober. It's taken me hours to write this. Another thing I used to do when I was drunk was use capital letters and shout at the screen and again now I just stare and stare and star e and stare and stare and stare and

I just can't do this much longer.

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