Medicinal effects.

A headache, an inability to sleep, and a lack of any appetite whatsoever. It is difficult to maintain focus on anything of importance. I wonder if these are side-effects of the Zoloft. At times, I beleive side-effects must outweigh the symptoms the medications are meant to alleviate.

Doubts of ownership.

As the weather shifts to cooler temperatures, we shift into another mode, ourself. I suppose, upon reflection, that there is a sense of foreboding in both main seasons: as such, Las Vegas really only has a summer and winter, with autumn and spring only the intermission between each. The summer brings one set of memories to the surface, and the winter, another set. Spring and autumn held their own rituals as well, but these times signal for us a time for preparation. We must refocus and hone our skills anew in the interest of keeping up appearances. Each year is difficult, each dark holiday and anniversay unpleasant, but we do know that each year it fails to kill us, and in that there is hope.

On another note, security was breached the other evening when James--small James--broke down and told the fiance about one of the rituals. The Shadows are ever-present, even now, and I write this with great anxiety. However, I also write this in the hopes that if Tannah were correct, we may recieve further feedback.

Years ago there was a ritual performed in which our soul was promised to the Hidden God. It was sealed and unbroken. It was also done in such a way that even if we were to break free, it would still be only a borrowed soul, on our part, as after that moment it was no longer ours. I will not delve into the details of this ceremony for reasons, again, of inner security.

Tannah told us that biblicaly, no one but God can have our soul. He says this is illustrated in John, 10:28-30.

28) And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. 29) My Father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand. 30) I and my Father are one.

No man, yes. But another god?

Then that brings into question, again, our faith. If we are truly Christian, then we believe in One True Living God. We also believe that any other spirits or so-called dieties would be the creation of this One God, and therefore we would also believe that the creation cannot be more powerful than the Creator. Furthermore, that these demons or would-be dieties only have any conceivable power to those who believe in those powers. For instance, a demon cannot harm someone who is not open to it.

Why then, these doubts? The fear of the Shadows, who are the minions of this Hidden God. If we fear the Shadows, then we fear this Hidden God. And if we fear this Hidden God and believe He has our soul, then we do not believe in the power of our God. This has caused an immense struggle within us. This faith crisis grows increasingly darker.

Different faith-paths.

I read through much of my journal these past few days. In that, I realized that I had made it seem as if we are all Christian, or at least the majority of us. I suppose last year, when I wrote much of the site, it was said in order to placate the deliverance ministers hounding us, and in a sense, to give myself a feeling of solidarity. In reality, only myself and the Host are really Christian. Molly asks about Jesus at times, and Siroun has a passing interest. Several months ago we bought them a children's Bible, even though Siroun is likely too old for it. However, between that one, mine, and the few others we have setting about, there is no excuse to not read, if one were further interested. I know that on occasion both Meylin and Aurelio read a Spanish one we own, but they are present so infrequently.

Truth be told, most Inside are either Pagan, in one sense or another, or agnostic. Of course, what they choose to practice is no business of my own, but I do wonder why so many Inside choose to fall back on the ways that hurt us, to begin with. The Dhampir still use blood in their ceremonies, and the Elvenkind do, on occasion, practice what I would call spellcasting...though, with the issue at hand with the Rahkas now, they are still closed into the Spires.

I wonder if we could find a chaplain, here. I think it might raise morale with the troops, and I could certainly stand to take in any words of wisdom he may have to offer. It is odd to note that we have filled nearly every position we need within our ranks except that of a chaplain.

I know someone will likely tell me that we just need to go to weekly church services, but it is not the same, not by far. I can relate to no one there. It is a constant struggle to maintain composure. What if there is an outburst? An abreaction? We can have none of that.

Allow me to retort:

I have recieved more than a few accusatory remarks in the past day or so. These statements insinuate that I am a danger to the body and to the Host in that I allow us to cut the body at times, or even partake in the act myself.

The afore-mentioned incidents seem to overshadow counter-measures I have taken in the past. Times when I have taken the liberty of hiding blades, or times when I have come to the forefront specifically to resist an urge. There are times I knew that driving ourself to a hospital for proper medical attention would only bring worse conditions, and those times I took it upon myself to clean and suture the wound. And when there was no alternative except to harm the body, I made a direct effort to ensure the tools we used were clean, at very least.

I know this may come as a shock to some: I have many titles, but "God" and "Keeper" are not included. I only have a limited scope in certain decisions. I can suggest or plead or interfere, but we all are given free-will. I cannot force the Host or anyone else Inside to begin or cease an action. That would be both foolish and unethical.

Scattered.

We have been having intermittant hip pain followed by dislocations for months now. On Thursday, there was a rather odd position in which we found the body, whilst trying to maneuver inside a scissorlift. It caused yet another dislocation, and as we often do, I suggested we try to walk it off. Failing that after several hours, we asked Tannah to slide it back into place, though he was unable to do so properly. Yesterday, we went to seek medical assitance, and the doctor claimed it sounded very much like a fracture. We explained that we had endured hip trauma before, and she sent us to radiology, and gave us a referral to an orthopaedic specialist. It was mentioned that if it were a fracture or series of fractures that had never quite healed, we may be losing bone mass in the area. She also gave us a three-week sample of Zoloft; I hesitate in injesting medications again, but what with my recent thoughts, I believe it may be for the best. I insist on monitoring the side effects, however, and that the fiance do the same.

And now, this:

It has come to my attention that not only has the sister read through this site, but the mother has, as well. I feel a sense of guilt in that; I never intended for either parent to find this, and even if they had, I never expected one to read it. I was told that the mother read through it in one night, and it is quite a lot to take in at once. Had I known, I would have edited some entries, at least.

She said, however, that she wants nothing censored, as she will feel "shut-out"...I understand the sentiment, however I feel I cannot be held responsible for any abreaction that may occur. As we are dealing now more readily with the incidents in Texas, I refuse to allow myself to become conscience-stricken for writing events as they occured. If that is something that can be taken in stride (as well as one is able to do so), then so be it. This is a warning, nothing more; not given in anger but in the name of fair play. Consider this a favor, of sorts, as I will not spoiler for content.

Other than that, the mother did seem rather accepting, though she did mention a sense of sadness at the sudden knowledge. I was surprised, actually, as she asked quite a few questions; not only about aspects of the abuse and of our existence, but also seemed interested in keeping us comfortable, as it were. She wondered if it were appropriate to offer Molly a gift once in awhile, and also made it clear that, should I ever need a hug, I am welcome to it. A sweet gesture, I must admit.

"Yar, there be termites in me leg."

Apparently, today is International Speak Like a Pirate Day. In reference to the above quote, see Red vs. Blue. I really do enjoy that series, as silly as it is, at times.

Struggling with an abandoned heritage.

Oktoberfest officially begins today in the Bavarian capital of Munich. It is scheduled to end on 03 October; two weeks of unadulterated binging of nearly every type imaginable, set to the tune of traditional Bavarian brass bands. Photographs of the event show scores of Germans dressed in lederhosen mingling with shirtless college-age men, all grinning and lifting their steins in unison.

Even though our birth-heritage is German, and Bavarian specifically, We find ourself torn in that regard. On one hand, some of us would definitely like to research our earlier heritage. German food, and culture, and language are all fascinating to us. Not only that, but it is an integral part of our being, whether we like that or not.

On the other hand, there is the fact that there is a major part of our existence that was formed and molded by the German members of our family. Most of aspects that formed us were negative in nature. These are the things we rarely admit to ourself, or others. At times it can seem so unrealistic, and I am almost certain that we will not be believed. No one noticed then; I cannot begin to think that we would be given the same courtesy now, after the fact.

Tragedy in Beslan.

Though the actual incident in Russia occured days prior, I wanted to take a few days to really think it through. I tried to see both sides: the Chechen desperation, and the immoral "filtration camps"...of course, all I know is what I have read. Nonetheless, the conditions are deplorable, with reports of torture and rape circulating widely by ex-detainees. Such brutality is inexcusable, even in a time of war.

But to murder children? To hold them at gunpoint amid those already killed, to deny them even water for days? That is unspeakable. A senseless mass execution likely will do nothing to help the Chechen cause. I daresay they ruined any chance of being heard, as now the anger and grief felt by Russians is inconsolable.

Such terror and hatred in the world. I wish there were another way to exist, but also, I know that we would not understand joy had we not any reason to seek it. What is joy, without despair? What is comfort, without agony? It leads one to ponder why we choose to exist at all.

A nation forgets.

I stil remember this day, three years prior. It was a tragedy that transformed this nation, and even the world, whether or not anyoine wants to publically acknowledge that. Changes in security, in background checks, even in policies such as the Patriot Act, they all are efforts to fix something too late. Five years ago, a Phillips screwdriver or an unsheathed razor blade did not garner a second glance. Now, "flying the friendly skies" includes taking off one's shoes for inspection at the gate.

The thing that really saddens me is that the young people seem to have already forgotten the price paid, and the sense of brotherhood. Now it seems, the young people have moved on, and it is not acceptable to think they believe this merely an anniversary of a page in their textbooks. Fuck that.

Lo viernde-lisez.

"A dozen brothers, each one alone. They look upon their gifts: Thistle, steel, blood and wine. Each gift is unique, and powerful. Each gift is coveted. They are necessary to withstand the desolate times, the Winterkill."

I wrote this a few weeks ago, originally, but it has been on my mind of late.

There is a Yesuan legend, passed orally between both soldiers and civilians. It speaks of the Winterkill (or, in Yesuan, viernde-lisez), which is a type of soul murder. It comes upon the victim as a cold, unfeeling, emotional virus. It kills the soul as if by inches, weakening it slowly but deliberately. There is no cure, only remission. And it is indeed fatal.

Twelve brothers set off on the journey of Life. They began the journey eager and gleeful, with light-hearted thoughts and a spring in their step. Poise and valor ran in their blood, and they awaited the challenges that Life had to offer. Their only tanglible possessions were the gifts their father had given them: a satchel of thistle, a fistful of steel, a vial of blood, and a flask of wine. These supposedly had great--almost magical--powers, against the insidious vapors of desolation given by Winterkill. The thistle stood for endurance, the steel for strength, the blood represented courage, and the wine was given to mean passion.

As the road wound over hills and valleys, through forests and along the shoreline, the brothers grew weary. The challenges were met head-on, and although they were met valiantly, it still drained their fervor. They recalled the gifts, and held them close, but were uncertain how to use them. In their quiet moments, they secretly watched their mystical gifts, crying out to them silently, wanting desperately for their gifts to bless them. They began to wonder, each one exclusive of one another, if they had been found out of favor, and so the gifts would not perform for them. They began to eye one another suspiciously, and even began to develop greed of each other's gifts. This caused a seed of hate, and a seed of despair to grow within their hearts. They slowly began to wander without the exuberance they ahd once known, so instead they placed their faith in the hope of these gifts, obsessing over them desperately.

As time went on, the Winterkill infected them one by one, and they died gradual and agonizing deaths. These once close-knit brothers had become troubled casualties of great suffering. They succumbed far too soon, when youth had scarcely relinquished them. It is a devastating sight: an emotional demise in the dewy eyes of the young.

Truth be known, the gifts held no power at all. They were only symbols of the powers one holds inside of oneself.

Merely novelties, something tangible to squeeze when the world feels unreal, and one's heart is numb. One's true virtue is stoicism, the ability to keep emotion at bay until such a time that it is safe to unleash it. No amount of courage, or joy, or hope can save a soul. It is grim determination, a solid heart, a strong sense of stability..even if it is untrue. A half-truth is not the same as full-blown deception. Survival is not guaranteed to the emotional; they become overwhelmed. Survival is the glory of the realists.

Work-related injury.

We were sprayed indirectly by a fire extinguisher at work today. We inhaled much of it, and quite a lot seeped into the eyes, even with our safety glasses on. That shit hurts.