Epiphany.

First things, first: I am deeply apologetic for the post I sent last evening. It was most shameful. I use such profane language when intoxicated.

Now, for a possible explanation:

I finally realized what seems to be occuring here. I am not certain yet, but the Host made mention of it and the comment struck me in such a way that I knew I must be true...or, at very least, very plausible.

The Host has not been in any danger--perceived or otherwise--for quite some time. There are "issues", and "incidents"...even miniature crises once in awhile. But nothing like before. I have always been so hypervigilant, my anger a sheild and my hate a weapon, always at the ready to take down some unsuspecting would-be perpetrator. Without those perils, however, I am merely keeping things in order, it would seem. Therefore, as I am no longer busying myself with the same intensity my duties formerly required...I am not certain how to but this into words.

The rage simply does not work anymore. The stoicism has ceased to bury emotions and, instead, only makes them that much more unpredictable. And inebriation...that solves nothing, truth be told. The only thing my "precious" bourbon provides is a loss of control, a myriad of shameful and regretful acts, and the miserable experience of a mighty hangover. I cannot hide from this any longer. I have spent the majority of my existance holding others' pain, and I cannot do it any longer.

It shames me to even say this: I am grieving. All the negative emotion I had been holding at bay for so many years has finally been unleashed; the sluice gate not only opened, but destroyed. This is a different sorrow, however. It is cathatic. Cathartic, and yet much deeper.

Please, someone tell me this is normal. Tell me it is not selfish to feel this. Tell me I am not doing anything wrong by admitting I was hurt, really admitting it, and further admitting just how deeply that realization pierced me. Tell me this weakness is temporary, that I can still be an adequate Protector. Tell me I am not alone. Please.

"Drunk Sincerity"

Not that I like Bad Religion at all. Rather, I do not listen to the genre, but the title fits: Oh, yes...blessedly drunk. And more than that; I am fucking wasted. Whatever the voltage was on that bourbon...

And I loved it.

The bourbon hurt the throat...burned it. I loved that too.

It has been too long. Tired of the chocolate milk thing. Tired of alot of things. Just fucking tired.

Covered in paint, still, from work. I have been inhaling that shit for hours. And not on purpose, but when there are painters painting, the paint particles will get through the mask. It always happens that way. I am sure the brain is blue from it.

The only thing I dislike about being mind-fucked from alcohol is the lack of control. I loathe not being in control. I am a control freak, one might say. Smells pervade: burnt coffee, strong soap, and that paint, that matte finish paint I was breathing in all day today. You would think they would give us better masks.

Mjollnir and I had a few words. If one can even call it that.

I hate him almost as much as not being in control. He is taking my control from me.

The really laughable thing here, is that damn speech I wrote earlier...something about alcoholism being a myth...I do not quite recall.

I am a mockery of myself. Odd, how that could happen.
I need something much more than bourbon, something darker, something deeper. Something that has a raw element unlike anything. If we were thinking clearly, we would know where the scalpels were.

Good night, all...I suppose it is late, and we should sleep before our thoughts catch up to us.

Lingering addiction, and stigma.

We were forced to ingest and recieve injections of various narcotics during some of the later abuse. I still deeply crave some of these narcotics. Simple things trigger the desire: a straight-edge razorblade, or something as innocent as an empty vial. Part of me--us?--still wants it, wants that identity. We have no identity, really...we are Nambiet, a body with fifty or so names, not quite one and not quite individual, either. If it were as easy to check in to a Multiples-Who-Have-Ritual-Abuse-Pasts-and-Self-Destructive-Behaviors Anonymous meeting as it is for a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, and without the added stigma, I think it would be, as Daniel said, more speakable, and understandable. If one says one is a drug addict, there are fifty others who are there, or were there, either to offer "war-stories" or encouragement for kicking the habit. If one mentions "Insiders" or why the solstice is frightening, then the heads turn, idle chatter dies, and inevitably someone blurts out, "D.I.D. is a myth...and there's no proof of ritual abuse." No one says "There's no proof that narcotics can be addicting." or, "Alcoholism is a myth." To cover up one underlying issue with an outward one is almost a relief...I can say, "It is not that one of us is having a flashback, it is that I have consumed too much bourbon." No uneasy stares, no scoffing strangers. And it is accepted, just like that. And yet, I feel despicable for even admitting that.

Rather busy times, these.

The situation with Mjollnir is a little more complicated than I once believed. He is not wanting to change or relinquish rights, and I am not certain I can force him to do so. I am wondering if there are any options; one cannot let him roam free. That in itself is taking alot of my time.

We are also preparing for school, which will be very exhausting. We had to buy eleven books, including books on blueprints-reading, cables and wiring, technical mathematics, and conduit fabrication. It is all learned on the job, but extra practice and tutelage is necessary, and the lessons look brutal.

I suppose my deepest underlying issue at the moment is an odd type of confusion. I have never really made friends outside our Collective; I have never seen a purpose to it. Now I find myself with a friend, one I can speak honestly with, one I care about deeply. One who, as far as I can tell, accepts me as I am. I am not experienced in this...I know how silly I sound, having never had a friend and not knowing what to do with myself. However, I feel something strange in myself...I became concerned at once and discussed it with the Host, who said it was "merely" a type of love one feels for a good friend. (As if I were expected to know this.)

Love...that is a concept I am not able to grasp. There are two types of love I am able to comprehend: the protective love one has for a child, let us say; and the erotic love one has for one's mate. I know there is a love one has for God, and a love one has for, say, parental figures...however, it is difficult for me to fathom that. The love one has for a friend is equally as perplexing. I am worried that I am somehow acting inappropriately, and I am very cautious and stand-offish now around this friend. I find mysef saying and doing things I would not say or do, otherwise. I cannot tell if that is because of the situation, or if it is Mjollnir...either way, I am afraid it will only serve to offend. Furthermore, there are those who I feel I may want to create friendships with, and I am hesitating now. I am not sure what to do. Flashbacks, Mjollnir, relationships...

Many things.

A very busy week, this. The one year anniversary of having not self-injured was the eighteenth, and 21 August was the Host’s birthday. There was the usual chaotic social visits to various homes for gifts, cake and whatnot. The Host is happy, as the boyfriend’s parents no longer despise her. They see we are moving on, and not so "crazy" anymore.

We went to the Paris for the birthday meal with the boyfriend. The buffet there is excellent. French food is exceedingly rich but perhaps the most lovely to touch the palette. Outside the seating area, a man on a three-wheeled bike was selling baguettes, and another playing the accordion was serenading the audience. The Paris’ main attraction is that is is not so much a casino, as it is a slice of a village. Even the employees are called "citoyens". (I am certain I butchered the spelling on that.)

On a slightly different note, the French flags have since been replaced, and it is more realistic now. It looked silly for so many American flags flying over the Arc de Triomphe.

Also, one of the Host’s favorite bands, Maná, is coming to the Mandalay Bay. She spent $154 on two tickets. Granted, the seats are spectacular, but I am certain the money could have been spent in a more productive manner. The boyfriend is accompanying her, even though he speaks not a word of Spanish. Despite how he treats us Inside, at times, he is a good man.

On 26 August, the Host will have been Christian for two years. I am wondering: why is it I still feel shunned by God? I know I must trust Jesus, and yet I still wonder if His words apply to me. Trust is still a very difficult concept for me—for us, really. I wish I had stronger faith..

Beast within.

I have finally taken notice. I realized it yesterday. There is a concentrated evil churning inside of me. A vicious Beast, baring its teeth and waiting to snatch up its next victim. I try to keep it in check, I try to restrain it, but at times it is to no avail. It secretly enjoys causing pain, and relishes in brutality.

Do not mistake what I say; I am not upset by this, really. It is merely something I have finally come to terms with. The blood, the rage, the hatred, the violence...I try to blame it on this Beast, but I wonder how transparent those lies are. Molly suggested once that perhaps I have others, a seperate system to my own. It has been suggested before: we all know Mjollnir is my dark-half. I even want to say that the Beast is really him. I am not certain if I want to say that because it holds some semblance of truth, or if it is because I do not have the courage to stare myself down.

If the Beast is, indeed, me, am I this way because that is how I was created? Or am I this way because I am a product of cetrain unsavory circumstances? And do I have the power to change?

How can I be Guardian Protector if I am a Beast at my very core? I am so at ease with the small ones; I feel it is what I was created to be. I am damn good at my job. A few fuck-ups, but I cannot say any of them were in my control. So why this game of Jekyll and Hyde?

Such confusion. I do not want to accept blame that is not mine, but I do not want to pass it on to any blameless, either. I suppose I should speak with Mjollnir; he has been in Stasis for quite some time. Perhaps he will shed some light on this subject.

The Halo of the Spiral.

Drinking chocolate milk--a guilty pleasure--and listening to an incredibly calming jazz band called Paris Combo. (The words are in French, but it matters not to us...I would reccomend them to anyone.) We are trying to come together, trying to make sense of what has occured recently, in regards to the sudden flashbacks and suicidal ideation.

I am in the midst of pondering many things this evening. I had been caught in the Halo of the Spiral for quite some time. It is odd, because I did not wish to appear weak in discussing the issues. I used to be brash and violent, but at least I was not weak, then. I allowed no unnecessary silliness, no weeping, no complaining. Now I find that is often what I do, myself.

The Halo of the Spiral may be difficult to explain. I am not certain if it is something that occurs solely in this Collective, or all systems, or in singletons, as well. It is a vacuum-like force that pulls one into an ever-sickening slough of despondancy. It causes that sinking feeling of despair, that soft acknowledgement that it may never get any better. It delivers one into the deepest and most merciless, dripping cavern of depression. This Halo of the Spiral has no beginning or ending, but rather keeps its grip, so one cannot escape. The Host likens it to Cygnus X-1, a black hole, except that we see it Inside: its luminescence is misleading, I assure you. Imagine a brilliant mist the color of the most radiant sunshine, shape it into the slit of an eye, the cast the remnants about it much like a tornado. That is the Halo of the Spiral.

I am not certain why it is so lovely, and I am not certain why I was so easily lured into it this time. I do know, however, that it has lost its grip, and I am able to think more clearly. My thanks to a very dear friend...who has since returned, safe and well.

Concerned.

I am quite worried for a close friend of ours...I hesitate to mention her name, as I am not certain how closely guarded she is on her privacy. She left so suddenly...an e-mail was sent to us by an unknown individual several days ago, saying she had gone to Budapest for an unspecified amount of time. I tried to keep calm about it, but a week later and no word...I do hope she is doing well.

[none]

Nausea. Words have left me. A violent flashback, worse than others prior. I cannot help them. Fear has a scent; I know it well. Dark room stained, candles dripping, we can tell no one, we are alone, the Shadows see all, no one knows this fear, this rage, this black rage, no one but me, no one but me and I must be strong. I cannot fight them all, I haven't the strength. Slipping away. Nothing to help us sleep. Nothing.

My God, I am so intensely terrified.

Sweeping change.

Something odd is happening to us.

I notice it in myself, of course. But I also notice it in others within the Collective, and we have commented to one another about it for the past few days. Something is amiss, to say the least.

Molly has become more "clingy"...Jude has reverted to a nearly silent state...Aine and Rowan refuse to leave the Spires...Niven has gone in search of others like him...Siroun is picking every comment apart as if it were paper to be shredded.

As for myself, I am finding those warm and frighteningly familiar attitudes returning. Those "fuck you" attitudes. I hated myself then. I feel I have overcome that part of my past, that I do not need violence or a barrage of verbal atrocities to flow from me in order to feel in control.

A spraypaint can burst near us today at the shop. We were covered in sticky, dark red pigment, and for a moment, I wished it were blood. One week shy of a year without having self-injured, and the thoughts return. Why is this? Is it that a year will make it impossible for us to say we "slipped up" if we cut? Or is it that the summertime is always a trigger? Perhaps neither...perhaps it is merely that old habits never really change.

As Alice (often) said, "Curiouser and curiouser..."

Hard-wired for God?

I have always fancied the brain as being something of a computer's hard-drive: wired for this and that, with an inexhaustible array of programs and glitches alike. I suppose it is easier to think of it that way, though perhaps a bit cold.

I read something once about a subject called "neuro-theology". This is the concept of there being a certain area of the brain that is "hard-wired" for faith, and/or religious experiences. (Please bear in mind I am giving the absolute bare-bones summary of the entire idea.) Medical professionals have done experiments: such as having a nun go into deep meditation and when she felt "enlightened", or that she was having a religious experience, she tugged at a wire and they rushed her to radiology for a C.T. scan of the brain. A very small area was alive with activity, while other areas were nearly completely dormant.

What interested me is that this "faith circuit" seemed to drain the certain other parts, including a section of the brain that allows you to percieve where one ends and something else begins. The article continued describing it for quite some time, and it seemed to me that those in the deepest meditations were actually dissociating.

I suppose what I am pondering is this: If those with the deepest connection in faith are dissociating to rise to that plateau, why is it considered a disorder, or a symptom of such? Is dissociation really all that harmful? It seems common enough...

A proper explanation.

Note: This entry shall serve to further explain the previous two entries, as I was unwilling to share many details at the time.
I went through a rather nasty suicidal ideation phase...something we had not experienced in almost two years. Odd, really. Now it has calmed down to merely a sort of despondency. My mind is still not up to par; I believe it shall become sharper as the days turn brighter.
Two issues that we were dealing with...A friend of the boyfriend's owns an arcade. The boyfriend was close enough to this man that he allowed the boyfriend to use his computer for speedy downloads and such, as he had a very expensive computer and fast internet connection. While playing with the afore-said computer one day, the boyfriend came across graphic child pornograpy: adults with children of both sexes. We decided to call a detective with Metro, someone working in Internet Crimes Against Children division. The idea of making a statement to a detective, especially about this, was intensely triggering, and it brought many unsavory experiences back to us. However, it is necessary, as the man works closely with children.

Enough of that for now.

On to the next subject: This pastor we know, who has been counselling us for some time, decided that we needed to move swiftly towards integration. That, I believe I have told before. However, this time, he said we must give up our Mindscape and convene permenantly in one large room, as separate rooms invite evil to be done. To pacify him, I agreed, and gathered most into a large underground chamber. Those who did not agree decided to wander and make their own lives elsewhere. I hated it...I felt so utterly alone. I felt like we were but cattle. I pondered the situation, and grieved over my decision. I was not sure if I should reverse it: after all, I really try to stick with a decision once it has been made, as second-guessing oneself can waste alot of time. Then, several days later, he told me that I should regard the ones that left as "undesirables", and I should shun them.

I shall not shun one of our own.

I told him as much, and he asked me, point-blank, if I was ready to integrate, and give up my right to a separate life. I told him I was not. He told me then, in not so many words, that we would no longer be communicating until I had changed my mind.

The cheek.

I am not certain what hurt more: losing (yet another) (so-called?) friend and counsellor due to my being stubborn, or knowing that it is really rather hopeless to be accepted by anyone Outside.