Familiar regrets.

I am not certain how much I can write. I hesitate in revealing too much at this point. I have no idea who has access to this from Inside, though very few have learned to use the computer. No matter.

I spoke to Jim for quite a while the other evening. I was very unwell. It was so sudden, this inexplicable fear. I immediately doubted all my training, my abilities, my previous successes. I could only focus on negativity. I know vaguely from whence it came; I sent a team to set up communications on the border of the Expanse: an area that is considered a type of No-Man’s Land. They had radioed that the mission had been successful, and then nothing. They have gone missing, and I knew at that point that it must have been poor judgment on my part. I had been too heavily distracted with what was to come.

Jim spoke to me of logic, of focusing on the positive in the situation. He told me he knew I would rise to the occasion, when it presented itself…and thusly, it did.

Not half an hour after we ended the conversation, a raid was staged against us. The true beginning to this ordeal. I recall very little: shrapnel tore through the air, there were screams and curses, the heady aroma of burnt metal, and then chaos. I remember securing our position, and I sent Niven to protect the small ones. The weapons cache was emptied, and we were all armed; we are fortunate that we had this much time to properly prepare. We lost only six, though two were cadets.

This entire situation is very difficult for me, for us. I can see the entire operation in my mind, I can smell the blood. I feel the commands I screamed still fresh in my throat. And yet, I cannot take it upon myself to really discuss it with anyone. There are certain things inadequately described by words, and inadequately relieved by tears. Sometimes it is best to swallow both, and move on.

In preparation.

There is really rather a lot I have avoided in the past week or so. I hesitate to discuss issues with the upcoming battles ahead, as the very nature of these Wars is an enigma to me, and I can only imagine how it must seem to those Outside.

And yet, this is my journal, and my life within, so if it comes across as odd or unbelievable, then quit reading.

There are certain things I may never discuss here; the situation with Trinet, for example. That was entirely too painful on every level to address candidly. Not only that, but the time it would take to explain exactly what occurred, and how, is beyond my patience at this point. It is also not something of which I am particularly proud.

Many changes here, as of late. I have organized a recruiting effort, and we have received quite a few, though most are without any military background or experience. We have gone back to addressing one another with our military identification codes, as well. I suppose I should explain that: it was the way Piirek did things. He designated every soldier with an identification code, for two reasons. It was much easier to see a number die than a person, if that makes sense. Also, we do not show rank on our sleeves, or salute one another. We do not wish the Rahkas to differentiate the upper ranks from the cadets. When addressing one another with identification codes, the name and rank are already known. The system works well for us.

One thing I have noticed is how easily I am fitting back into my old role. I remember the trepidation with which I accepted the rank of Battalion Commander years ago. Part of me still feels woefully under-qualified, but then another part rises to the occasion, and knows I am damn good at what I do…so long as I keep my temper under check.

As of now, preparations are underway: I have assigned several to ration and weapons detail, and still others to strategic objectives. I estimate that I have a month left here, though it will likely be less. The Host will take over for me in many aspects, including keeping me updated in regards to the e-mail list to which I currently belong. (It is a support group, of sorts; an excellent group of individuals.) After tossing several choices about, we have decided that she will assume the nickname Dixhuit gave her: Bruyère. She takes issue with others knowing her real name online, and this nickname is unique enough, while still being cryptic, that she can post with ease.

I feel an odd sense of peace. There is a fear, of course, muddled with determination and purpose, but it seems very far away, almost obscured by this peace. Quite nearly a feeling of quiet resignation. I am surrounded by lucidity of what is to come, and I play different scenarios in my mind. I consider myself lucky to have allies Inside, and friends Outside. I daresay this Invasion could have been far worse.

This should prove interesting.

A new man came today...we are accepting many new apprentices and journeymen for this new tower. He took his drug test and filled out his paperwork, and I was surprised when I found his name was Logan. It has always been common for the Host to meet others with her name, as hers is not unusual, but this is posing quite the issue for me. Every time someone calls for Logan, I turn to respond, and then stop myself. We cannot even claim that we misheard, if someone inquires about it; my name and that of the Host are not at all similar, save that they both are of two syllables and contain both vowels and consonants.
If anything else, it will make things interesting.

Lost photographs.

Two days prior, we visited the mother for her birthday. It was fun, as I do enjoy her company. At one point during the day, the Host saw a photo album, and asked if she coudl thumb through it. The mother responded, "I don't know if that's a good idea." She went on the explain that the photo album had been her mother's and still has photographs of the main perpetrator within. The Host shrugged and decided to look anyway.

The photographs were haunting to say the least. To see his smirk again, to look upon that face that held us captive for so many years was a shock. There were photographs of him with the biological father, photographs of him with his girlfriend, photographs of him with us. It is interesting to note that in family photographs, we are positioned as far away as possible from him. There is one in which we were sandwiched between him and another, and the smile upon our face was false, it looked as if it had been fashioned out of wax.

I have been numb to several things for a few days now, and this was no exception. Except that I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel rage, or anguish...anything. We spent far too much time being forcibly numbed by narcotics. I was perturbed that again, I was numb to him.

Memories flooded of course...nothing new, but nothing savory, either. Sometimes I despise him. I despise how we were used, how we were tortured, how he twisted and perverted religion to suit his primal needs. And I despise that he got away with it.

No more for now.

Notably forgotten.

For this entire week, I have been looking forward to going to church. Partly because this week has been absolutely awful, and partly because today, Sunday, happens to be the one year anniversary of becoming a Christian. It means a lot to me. I have a new Bible, as well, and was aching to try it.

So Sunday morning comes, and the Host says apologetically, "Sorry, we can't go to church today, there's too much going on." I ask her what is so pressing. She responds with mostly silly excuses...a few were good, such as the fiance's father in the hospital and her own mother's birthday celebration. But I did not see that as a reason to not put aside one hour for church. I think the real reason was that she simply did not feel like it, and that angers me. I know it likely sounds childish but one fucking hour, it is not too much to ask. I did not even care which service, or what time. I just feel left out somehow...I know that is so very petty, but just this one day is all I asked, and for a mere hour.

Struggling in this.

Things are going quite poorly. I am trying to remain intact, but it seems that this bullshit never ends. I am positive many would agree, or at least understand.

Last night, I was not myself. I did something unspeakable, something I feel I should regret, but i am not certain I do. I acted out of rage, I acted on a desire for retaliation. It was wrong, I admit that. But would I do it again, if the situation presented itself? Likely, yes.

I do recall, afterwards, I went ballistic with the scalpel blade. I did not even want to immediately wash myself of the blood, except that my fingers were sticking together and it annoyed me. Now I stare at the gaping wounds I created. If you ask me, that was not the act of a guardian, or of a protector. I wonder why I do this.

It is almost a year that I became a Christian, though few would know that by my actions. I have not changed, really, I have only hidden darker facets of myself away. I am in shock, and I am admittedly terrified. I do not know how to handle all of this. The only way I knew, from before, is so completely wrong. I cannot be that way again. I will not allow it. And yet, what other choice is there?

I feel that no one can relate, fully. I know that assumptions should never be made, but something holds me steadfast and does not allow me to discuss these internal happenings. I have made hints, I have given broad statements, but I feel very alone in this. However, there are friends of mine who are always supportive, always willing to listen, and I am ever-grateful. Sometimes I am sure they understand more than I realize. That does not keep me from wanting to walk away from all this, give up, surrender. And then the reality of that thought strikes me, and I know I cannot.

I know in my heart, I really believe that God will not give us more than we are able to handle. Sometimes, however, I think He believes I am stronger than I really am. I cannot take much more of this. The carefully crafted shell of stoicism and strength I have wrought is slowly crumbling away, and I am really worried for what may come.

Iselet.

Iselet is the Yesuan term given to something that gives one a sense of peace, or security. Each soldier is given a firearm, a rifle with which he may effectively fight. But most carry also a personal firearm, usually a handgun. This is the case with me.

My sweet Iselet…she aches to perform. She keeps me warm and her comforting presence nudges me gently in the night. My fingers fit around her in perfection, she is mine and I am hers. She strives to please, and she keeps her aim true when my hands—or my conscience—waver. So few understand, but she does indeed. She has seen it all with me: the blood, the charred flesh, the flame and mud and bleak grey skies. And yet, she has also seen the glory of a new day, and has seen it through the jaded eyes of a seasoned soldier: a beauty almost taken for granted at times. Sometimes I wonder if my Iselet is the only one who dares understand me.

Moments, throughout.

Firstly, thank you to everyone for the birthday wishes. I did not expect that, which made that day even better.

Today was an odd day; this is indeed a rant, though it is a good-natured one, because most of it was foolishness, and nothing to really become angered over.

I woke up this morning to check e-mails, and after going to Hotmail's main website, I saw that the Host had logged on to the Spanish-language version of MSN, and had forgotten to log out. I do not mind it when she does that, of course...not for the most part. However, being that I cannot read Spanish, it was rather frustrating, and she giggled when I told her I needed help. I think she assumes that everyone Inside is bilingual in Spanish, because she is. However, in reality, there are only two Inside who speak it at all. I am not the minority in this.

I should be honest here: as much as I like to pretend I do not and have not cut, it is a slight misrepresentation of the truth. I am not usually the active participant, but I do oversee the act at times. Today was one of those times. The Host has been absorbing some of my negativity, unfortunately, and has been cutting "accidentally-on-purpose" quite often. Meaning, she will purposely allow something to happen at work, so it seems that it was not self-inflicted. Carelessness near the tie-wire, or being too rough with tin-snips, for instance. However, today she went rummaging in our private first aid kit and found a #22 scalpel blade we thought had gone missing. Immediately she excused herself to the restroom and made a ghastly wound, at the inner wrist. Of course it was stupid; it took quite awhile to stop the bleeding and then, the wound was not fully covered by our work gloves. Therefore, even though it was warm today, we had to put on a pair of thermals so the long sleeves could hide it. And now, I wonder, how she is going to explain this to the fiance?

Of course, it is partially my doing; I knew her intent, and I could have easily put an end to it. I held my tongue, and was viciously reminded how much I sometimes miss it. It is much like a tentative, burning kiss.

Enough of that now...I do not want to be tempted again.

A very good day.

Not a "real" birthday, per se; 13 January is simply the day I have chosen to mark it. A day I choose to reflect, and to know that no matter what, it is worth it to be alive.

Usually, on this day, there is no fanfare or acknowledgement, save from few others within the Collective. This year, however, I was pleasantly surprised.

Firstly, two friends greeted me; one "birthday-spammed" me, with quite a few e-cards. It took forever to read through them all, but it was lovely. Another sent me a Christmas/New Year's card, and how it arrived from Europe to my city on this day, I shall never know. Such thoughtfulness...I am very lucky to have friends.

The Host also surprised me with my own Bible, the King James Version. I prefer it to her bibles; she has none in English. (One in Spanish, Korean, Mandarin, French, Esperanto...but none in English, which makes it difficult for me.)

Aside from being deep in thought on a few subjects, this has been the first good day in quite awhile, and I wanted to share something positive.

Unplugged.

I am not able to focus this morning. My thoughts are disconnected. Flashes of color and obscure words bombard me:

flame

secrets

blood

duty

silence

determination

shame

mud

desperation

rain

darkness

thunder

broken

According to a branch of the Department of Defense, the life expectancy of a tank operator is seven minutes. The life expectancy for an infantryman on the front lines is ten seconds.

Really, that is all I have to say on the subject. It struck me somehow.

I have few words today.

At times I wish I could unplug myself from reality and sleep indefinately.

Tradition.

While on watch the other night, my thoughts began to wander. Invariably, they wandered to the time we first discussed the possibility of Pavelin and Kassuil being Rahkas. I had said something to the effect of, "It is always tradition that we strike first."

The statement struck me as odd, and really I had never thought anything of it before. But I wondered why it was tradition that we strike first? What was the purpose? If they truly wanted to invade, would they not do so whilst we were still unaware of their presence? Is it that they are waiting to for an excuse to slaughter us, in supposed self-defense?

Now I hesitate, and am second-guessing everything on warfare I thought I knew. If I strike, will that secure our safety, or seal our death?

A turning-point, of sorts.

There is a point in one's anger and frustration that words become redundant. I am so fucking sick of this constant invalidation, having to fight my way to a plateau where I might, just might be accepted as an equal. Nowhere I go can give me that, it seems. Nothing I do can prove my worth. This is utter bullshit. I am tired of stereotypes, of descrimination, of those who think they are so goddamn perfect that only their agenda matters.

Wake up: it simply doesn't.

And on that note, it seems to be the trend with those I know to tell me what I should or should not feel of my experiences. Of the extent of my pain, or the validity of my existance. It takes all my available will-power to not tell them to fuck themselves. I have far too many issues to tend to that take precedence over what they think. Of course one would think that, then, it should not upset me. But it does, because I am human and feel just like all of you do.

Restless.

It was still dark out when I found myself sitting on the veranda. I have been rather pensive, as of late; there was proof in the fact that my cigarette had burned away without having ever touched it to my lips. There was nothing left, save a column of ash topping the filter. At the time, I scarcely noticed.

I watched the sun rise, a lavish splendor of color that I saw flow and ebb: mauve, scarlet and gold trailed over the sky, making the stars obsolete. It was glorious...so often I forget to find majesty is such things.

I am restless; there is so much to do, and there is never really the right time to do any of them. Time is short, I know, and when one has too many things on one's mind, it leads to hopelessness. I am calm, and I do not believe that will occur. If I maintain my wits about me, if I remember to keep logic close, I cannot fail. I truly believe that.

I am wondering...has anyone else been in the situation where they really have no choice but to go through with something, hating it and at the same time, knowing it absolutely must be done? I think I am there now. To not do as I need to, that is unthinkable. It is not even an option. Yet to go ahead with it chills me.

I think I have started talking in circles. Perhaps I will write more later.