Understanding integration.

Too much, too soon. I abandoned the idea of the Great Underground. I cannot recall what I have written prior in regards to this, if anything: we were instructed by a well-meaning friend to allow the Mindscape to cease to exist. We were to gather those Inside who agreed into a single room to live, and let things be.

At any rate, I grew tired of it. We have our Mindscape, and we are free to roam as we please. It is refreshing.

Also, some we thought to have integrated, have not. We are still few in number, but now some who I was unsure about have actually returned to us. The Host still wonders if that is "normal", and I scoff: According to society, we--Nambiet--are not normal.

Two more developments: We are working impossibly long hours, which has helped us to cease thinking in things that are better left alone anyway. A God-send, perhaps? Speaking of God-sends, I have also come to terms with issues on integration: it simply will not happen. How lovely that I will never think upon that again.

An outrage.

We found out that an acquaintance of the boyfriend has in his computer's hard-drive very graphic child pornography. We need to make a statement for a police detective. This is bringing entirely too much upon us...remembrances of times past. I am attempting to hold these volitile emotions at bay, but it is difficult, as we are enveloped in such confusion and despondancy.

For Dixhuit.

Today is Bastille Day, one of Dixhuit's favorites. We celebrate it even though he is no longer with us. Partly, I suppose, in remembrance, and partly because none of us Inside really understand the apparent American dislike for the French. I see no true reason. The boyfriend said that many consider the French "cultural enemies"...this term in itself boggles the mind.

At any rate, Bastille Day was not the same without Dixhuit. We felt very little of his presence as of late. We prepared a country-style French-onion soup that was rather tasty, and complimented it with a warm baguette and baked Brie. (Brie, although lovely to the palette, is entirely too expensive, in my opinion. Perhaps it is why we eat it so infrequently.) In years past, we would have watched one of Dixhuit's movies: Le Gloire de Mon Pere or L'argent du Poche...something along those lines. However, it ws a somewhat melancholy day without him, seeing as he loved this day so much, but to not mark the occasion would have been even worse. Therefore we watched a bit of Delicatessen and let Molly watch an episode of Caillou in French. (She likes French because she has fond memories of Dixhuit. Also, Martha sent her a Tin-Tin postcard, and she has truly fallen in love with French cartoon characters. She now wants to visit Parc Asterix, outside of Paris...little does she understand that it is not a destination we can easily reach.)

We also bought Brie and a baguette for the parents. They enjoyed it, although the father did not particularly like the taste of Brie. The parents are good to us, however, and we enjoy their presence. It is good to share with those one likes.

Confusion, and panic.

Today at church, we took Communion. (We are Protestant, and I am told that in Protestant churches, it is called "The Lord's Supper", but I prefer the term "Communion". It is the same thing, just a different term, as far as I am aware.)

At any rate, we had always taken Communion with virtually no problem. At times we felt the beginnings of a flashback coming upon us, but a prayer and solid grounding usually kept us well.

Today none of that worked.

The Host was out, as she usually is for church...we listen, but she is out.
That is just how it is. Then the bread was ingested...no problems. Once the juice came, however...it is a very deep grape juice, instead of the wine. The Host was positive it was really blood. We had been forced to ingest blood, once upon a time, in rituals similar but drenched in perversion to confuse...and we understand it is not how our church would do things. As she began to panic, I took control and inspected the juice. It was indeed very dark, a very deep color. Thick. I did not want to tip back the thimble-full we had and drink it entirely without testing it. I knew if it were really blood...well, there would have been intense issues to deal with.
The thoughts in my mind as I slowly dipped a finger in the liquid to test it: numerous, and most were too inappropriate to retell here.

I was expecting it to be warm, like blood. I was almost positive it would be, you see. What I loathe to admit is that even though we were forced to ingest blood during certain rituals in times past, we grew to enjoy its flavor. We have often thought that mentally, we learned to like the taste of blood merely so we could endure drinking it better. It was known what would occur if one gagged up or spit out the blood from the chalice...something one dares not contemplate.

I digress...

What I had difficulty in admitting earlier was that in some small way, I had hoped it was blood. It nauseates me and warms me at the same instant.

I am positive that makes me a hideous person.

In reflection.

We attended a cousin's quinceañera on Saturday. For those not familiar, a quinceañera is a very elaborate girl's fifteenth birthday party. It is a public coming-out-as-a-woman affair, filled with symbolic ceremonies of being done with childhood and moving on as an adult. To my knowledge, it is a strictly Hispanic practice.

It started well enough: Lisa arrived in a limousine with her entourage of fifteeen other girls. She was presented and her parents made their speech in both English and Spanish about accepting her as a responsible adult. The Mariachi band played traditional and modern music, the flamenco dancers were breath-taking. Then the ceremonies: the last dance with her father as a child, the doll ceremony, the pillow ceremony, her first dance with a male as a woman, and the shoe-changing ceremony with her mother (in which the mother removes her daughter's childish shoes and places more adult shoes on her feet).

The part that bothered us was the slide-show. Photos of Lisa as a happy child, smiling, joyous in her close relationships. So selfish I am...I am overjoyed for Lisa, that she is so well-adjusted, that she is content in life, that she has strong familial bonds, but at the same time, I was angry that we missed out on that. Our heritage is muddled. Virtually nothing prior to age fourteen is worthy of rememberance. It was all abrasive. We have no true hertiage now, only a montage of what we knew. A few happy photos, a rare joyful memory. Granted, they are there...but few and far between up until that point.

And then we wonder with nausea and dread: is Lisa really well-adjusted? Is she really happy? She claims no prior abuse or mistreatment, but neither did we at age fifteen.

Why is something as beautiful as her quinceañera so triggering to us? Why is it we must look into every possible negative aspect?

Borisci ilanen.

I feel I am wandering without a compass. I am lost: ilanen.

Ilanen is the Yesuan word for "lost". Ironic, is it not, that Yesuan is lost, as well? Things are changing: fatigued, confused. Nightmares on a regular basis. Too fantastical and bizarre to even contemplate writing here. How weak I am.

I want some fucking stability.

I am tired of being misunderstood. I am tired of being the practical one, the strong one; as if that meant I did not have any emotions. You would be surprised the things I am told, the things I am entrusted to "sway" the Collective into doing. They believe I am just a machine, programmed for certain duties, and when those duties have been completed, I am open for more programming. I feel, just like any of you.

I have said all this before. This is nothing new. All these issues I complain about: so few have any true solutions. When will I learn that Outside rules do not apply to me? Ambrose Bierce once said, "To be abnormal is to be detested." I see the truth in that. The parents constantly worry that one of us will cause the Host to be in a traffic accident or whatnot, certain that we are incapable of functioning, certain that I am so fucking idiotic that I would allow one of the small ones to drive...the boyfriend told us, matter-of-factly, that he wishes us dead. Not the Host. Just us, Inside. As if we cannot hear. As if we are merely voices, detached sound-clips floating about the mind. Now the Host wants him, and us, to speak to the pastor for some type of counselling. What will that accomplish? Outside rules do not apply to me, apparently, isn't that right? I am supposed to cease to exist: no Heaven or Hell, no second chance, no closure. I am expected to squeak out of existance, as if I never was, and leave it at that. I suppose that might be simple for a detached sound-clip.

I am tired of being calm. I am tired of being reserved. I am tired of wanting something so badly that my chest tightens with the force of it...and then knowing with certainty that it will never happen.
Never...what a lovely word. Stark in its appearance, commanding authority with its very presence. "Never" is a word that screams "finality". Is that even a word? I am losing my grip, I really am.

I did not ask to be created. I did not worm my way Inside to wreak havoc and fuck about with the Host's life. I was born of a violent eruption...there was no choice in it for me. Does anyone think I actually wanted to be around then? Responsible for so many, forced to choose between my well-being and another's? I do not understand. I have been put to service for so long just to be shit on. And I know, my language is appalling, I do not usually speak as I am, however sometimes in a fury I cannot think coherently and the gift of weaving words fails me.

Listening to fireworks outside...knowing full-well that it is in celebration of the freedom I cannot experience. (There: your daily dose of melodrama.)

What really boggles the mind is how little others care to know. One may not realize it by reading this post, but I am stronger--much stronger--than most understand. I refused to come out of what we were forced to endure and exist as a wet sock. I have grown, and I am proud of that. We are expected to tell others what is bothering us--I am referring almost exclusively to family now--and it never goes as it should. (Never...that word again.) Either we are met with uncomfortable stares or muddled words, or it is decided that we apparently cannot handle any burden whatsoever. "There is a family crisis? Let us not tell the broken one." As if we would not have ever known! We are not trusted. Please, I am looking for insight: are we not trusted because we are Many, and therefore psychotic? Or is it because we give the illusion that we are too weak to handle such things?