We Were Not Magnificent

April 21st, 2018

 Before I begin, I would just like to make it clear that the only reason I'm writing this is because the new therapist my mother insists I see an hour every week until "she says so," told me she thinks it will help me through these troubling times I must be going through. Something about "owning my story." Whatever that means. I've never been much of a writer. I wish I could simply draw the story out for her in a series of slightly morbid self-deprecation web comics starring a sentient piece of crumbled newspaper (which to be honest, would be a more accurate depiction of my current state) but she suggested I keep it simple. So, here I am, a writer.

Personally, I don't understand what writing it out for her is going to do. I've already told her everything I know. Not to mention half a dozen cops, reporters, and my mother. There's nothing left to tell and grilling me any longer is not going to make me suddenly know where Elijah Peterson went. That's all they really want to know, right? Where is Elijah Peterson and what happened to Lisa Jackson?

Trust me, if I knew I would not be sitting in my mother's "craft room" as she calls it now since I moved out of my childhood bedroom (but is now again temporarily my living quarters until I find somewhere else to go within my budget) picking at a bowl of ramen instant noodles, writing a dumb diary entry, and sweating. I swear my mother is actually a lizard and raising the temperature above 78 degrees would be hazardous to her health. Or maybe she's a negative entity like in the ghost hunting shows and her very presence just makes the whole atmosphere unhospitable for everyone else in the vicinity. Whatever the case, it's just further reason to get out of as quickly as possible.

Therefore, I must start keeping a diary. I know that correlation may not seem obvious so let me explain. See, the reason my mother is so belligerent about me seeing this psychotherapist is because ever since Elijah left, I haven't been able to hold down a job. Not that I haven't tried. I worked at the Starbucks down the road for a few weeks until one day I was handed a toilet scrubber and asked to clean the restroom. For thirteen bucks an hour? Absolutely not. After the year I had, can you blame me for thinking I was above such work?

Before the events that took place in January, I actually had a pretty good run as an artist. God, how I wish I could just go back to that time. Before I was forced to move back into a literal terrarium. Before everyone thought we were frauds. Before the sheriffs and the media got so rudely involved in my life. Before Lisa died. Before Elijah disappeared. Life was so perfect back then; it was just us, the starving young artists of the Barracks, against the world. And we were going to make a difference.

Were, was; past tense. I think that's my only problem really. I am still living in the past tense. As if the real Kerri is still stuck somewhere back there and this current corporeal form is just a meat suit powered by electricity but nothing more than that. No spirit, no emotion, just an empty shell of a young woman who once was. Is that depression? Shouldn't I be on an antidepressant then and not just talking about my feelings in a tired, cramped room once a week? But onestly, why wouldn't I choose to simply live in the best part of my life for just a little longer? It beat's the current reality of near-heat exhaustion. Why would I even think of moving on from Elijah like Dr. Rosenburg suggests, when nothing would ever compare to the six months I spent in the Barracks with him? Furthermore, why would I ever move on from Elijah when I know he's out there somewhere and he's missing me just as much as I miss him? We were soulmates. And I know, I know, that as soon as the dust settles, and everyone returns to business as usual, he'll be back for me.

So, no, I won't move on. But I will write my story, if only to get in right. See, the news is lying to you. I honestly never thought I'd be one of those people, until I was hit with a huge reality check in January. The slew of lies that came out of these people's mouths was downright abhorrent. See media these days only cares about viewership. They exaggerate the facts to keep you interested. And if that stops working, they just pump out propaganda until you're so brainwashed you forget they were lying to you in the first place. At least that's how I see it. That's the only logical reason so many fake articles were pumped out over the Barracks.

I guess that's the one good thing about "owning my story." Whoever reads this, even if it is only Dr. Rosenburg, will get the cold, hard facts of Titusville, Florida's one and only story of the century straight from the mule's mouth. Is that the phrase? Whatever.

Dr. Rosenburg suggested I start small so I don't get too overwhelmed. So, to begin, there are three things you need to know. One, none of us were ever trying to hurt or mislead anyone. We were just young adults making art. Two, Lisa Jackson was always unhinged. And three, Elijah Peterson did not kill Lisa Jackson.