OK, I’m going to try this again. I’ve started this post four or five times now and deleted it every time. Wendy has officially noted her ‘concern’ over my recent bourbon consumption, but I need it after this, after yesterday, and it was Grandpa Joe’s favorite drink. It makes me feel more connected, I guess. It also stops my hands from shaking so I can type.
I found a stack of pictures yesterday, pictures of my grandfather during World War II – I posted about those already. They made me feel a sense of pride, a sense of honor. Mixed in with them, though, was something else. Something I’m having a very hard time with.
I have been seeing ghosts, experiencing bizarre unexplained events, and I seem to have a part in some century-old supernatural drama that, to a sane person, is clearly impossible. Of all the things I have experienced, of everything I have found in that cursed steamer trunk, to me this document is more terrifying than all of the others.
In the beginning of all this, I did feel like maybe I was going crazy. I was seeing things and hearing things that certainly seemed crazy, right? Ghostly figures, bizarre sounds, insane, vivid nightmares, these would make anyone doubt their sanity. As I have delved deeper into it, though, I’ve started to believe it, I have started to feel like I was in the middle of something extraordinary. Maybe I really am a part of a dark supernatural legacy, maybe I am truly experiencing the unknown. I’ll admit it – the more I experience, the more I learn about my family history, believing that this is all real is more comforting than the alternative.
And this is the alternative. My grandfather was committed to a mental hospital for over a month in 1951. Vivid hallucinations, paranoia, possible schizophrenia. If I’m honest with myself, it reads like it could be my diary for the past two months.
So I’m thinking a lot now. What is the more likely scenario – that I am part of a dark supernatural conspiracy dating back to World War I, or that I am starting to exhibit signs of mental illness that may run in my family? If I were to tell this story to a therapist, he would prescribe something with a long, hard to pronounce name with ‘-itol’ or ‘-itrin’ at the end. If I were to tell a clergyman, he’d probably send me to a therapist. I don’t think I’d blame either of them. What would Grandpa Joe tell me to do?
I have a lot going through my head now, and the bourbon isn’t helping. Or maybe it is. Am I crazy? Should I just ignore all this, stop pursuing it, maybe it will all go away? I wish I could believe that.