Chapter 1

The border from sleeping to waking is a thin one, and Kilin came smashing through it. Leaping to his feet, he grabbed his father’s sword and rushed out the door to face the danger that had woken him head on. Or at least he would have faced it, if he had found any danger to face. Or anything at all, actually. But the forest outside his treehut home was as still and quiet as any other night. Kilin turned to go back to his interrupted rest, when he heard two things: one, the lack of crickets and other nighttime creatures, and two, a far-off crashing and shouting that seemed to be coming in his direction. Kilin perked up a little. Nobody ever came into the forest except him. That was why he had made his home here after one too many early mornings of being beaten out of a villager’s barn. No one dared venture into the trees after him, even when he crept into the village at night to raid the henhouses and vegetable gardens or scare the sheep. That last he did only rarely; he understood the villagers feared him because he was an outlander, so he tried to leave them be. Still, when they set traps for him at the edge of the forest, scaring sheep was the least he could do. He had almost fallen into that last spike pit, curse them! Losing a few eggs now and again served them right for trying to murder him.

The crashing and shouting drew nearer. He could not quite make out the words yet, so he dropped quickly to the ground and began to creep closer to the clamor. Inwardly, he snickered. “Bet the villagers are all cowering in their beds at this racket,” he thought to himself. “Serves them right. Hope it isn’t anything too dangerous, though. Waving Father’s sword around might be enough to warn them off but I’ve a feeling anybody else would just laugh at me.”

By this time he had reached the source of the commotion. A large group of armed men were smashing their way methodically through the forest. “Keep your eyes open, men!” one shouted. Kilin assumed he was their leader. “First one to find that treehut gets the largest share of the reward!” Kilin dove into the nearest tree and scrambled upward until he had put a safe distance between himself and the group of warriors. A treehut? Why would they be looking for his home? He had been over every foot of the forest for miles around the village, he knew for a fact his was the only treehut. Worse, if they continued the direction they were going, they would find it shortly. He had not made any effort to hide it, since the only people around were the villagers. He quickly rejected the idea that they had hired these men. Kilin was no more than a minor annoyance to the village, egg-stealing or no. They really only hated him for being an outlander. There was no way they would spend their carefully hoarded gold to send anyone after him, let alone outland warriors as these clearly were.

His attention snapped quickly back to the men as their leader shouted again, “Make sure you don’t lose the boy! The reward on his head is enough to make us all rich men for life!” A loud cheer greeted his words. Kilin wished he could sprout wings and fly away. A reward on his head? No, this was definitely not about a few raided chicken coops, or being outland. “Only the king has the ability to put a price on someone’s head,” he thought frantically. Then almost fell out of the tree when a dry voice answered him, “Or the gods.” That voice had been in his head! Who could possibly be in his head? “Me. Obviously.” The voice spoke again, a touch of humor coloring its tone. At the same time, something shoved Kilin in the back. He managed not to scream this time, but he did fall out of the tree. Fortunately it wasn’t a long drop and he scrambled to his feet and turned to face what had shoved him, his father’s sword held high. “Most menacing,” the voice snorted. “I approve.” Despite the words, Kilin had the feeling he was being laughed at, a feeling which only solidified as he took in the creature that was, apparently, making itself quite comfortable in his head. “A horse?” he thought in disbelief, “a bloody horse is in my bloody head?”

“Now I’m insulted,” the creature huffed into Kilin’s head. “Really, when was the last time you saw a horse that could compare to me?” Kilin had to agree as he took in the inky black being before him, jumping back another few feet when enormous black wings erupted from the creature’s back. “I take it back,” he agreed out loud. “Definitely not horse. Perhaps a demon?” he continued in his head, forgetting already that the creature could still hear him. It snorted angrily and plastered its ears back against its skull. “I’m insulted! And confused! How could you possibly not recognize a zahn when you see one! You are astonishingly ignorant for a future zahntir.”

“A what now?” Kilin was beginning to feel overwhelmed. First armed men go crashing through his forest looking for his head, now a creature that looked like a horse with, he had to admit, bloody awesome wings was calling him names - inside his head. Dimly he wondered if he had managed to go insane.

“For the first part, it isn’t a name. Well, technically it is, more of a title really. Have you never heard of zahn? Or the Riders?” Kilin shook his head. “I don’t know much of anything, really. You’re the first...person...to speak to me for quite a while.” The creature sounded bewildered. “But you are still a child. Have you no guardians or friends to care for you?”

Memories of his life in the village flashed unbidden through Kilin’s head before he drew himself up proudly. “I’m sixteen years,” he stated firmly. “No longer a child.” The creature looked at him a bit sadly. “No, not a child,” he agreed. “You have not been a child for a long time, have you?” Before Kilin could question what it meant, it went on in what could only be described as a pedantic manner. “I am a zahn. It is a strange thing to me that you do not know what I am, or recognize me by sight. Every child knows what a zahn is. Do you know of the gods, at least?” Kilin nodded. “Well that’s something, I guess. I suppose the easiest way to describe zahn then would be younger cousins of the gods. We are divine, if not strictly immortal. All zahn are destined to find a Rider with whom to bond for eternity, through life and death. You are destined to bond with me, but because I am,” and here the zahn sounded extremely proud, “who I am, you will be far more than just a Rider. You will be zahntir, Captain and Ruler of all zahn and Riders. It is a position of great honor and power!” the zahn finished rather impressively. He blinked, and added, “Oh, and my name is Niilk.” Kilin opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kilin,” he managed before falling over in a faint. Niilk made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker. “That wasn’t quite the response I anticipated. Oh well.” He levitated Kilin’s unconscious body onto his back, then took off, still snickering. “This is going to be so much fun.”

Meta is fun (when you're a priest)

Gwaed

So I've been coloring a little again...

Not too far from here

"Somebody's down to their last dime

Somebody's running out of time

Not too far from here

Somebody's got nowhere else to go

Somebody needs a little hope

Not too far from here

And I may not know their name

But I'm praying just the same

That you'll use me, Lord, 

To wipe away the tears

'Cause somebody's crying

Not too far from here

Somebody's troubled and confused

Somebody's got nothing left to lose

Not too far from here

Somebody's forgotten how to trust

And somebody's dying for love

Not too far from here

It may be a stranger's face

But I'm praying for your grace

To move in me and take away the fear

'Cause somebody's hurting

Not too far from here

Help me, Lord, not to turn away from pain

Help me not to rest while those around me weep

Give me your strength and compassion

When somebody finds the road of life too steep

Somebody's troubled and confused

Somebody's got nothing left to lose

Not too far from here

Somebody's forgotten how to trust

And somebody's dying for love

Not too far from here

Now I'm letting my guard

And I'm opening my heart

Help me speak your love to every needful ear

Someone is waiting

Not too far from here

Someone is waiting

Not too far from here

Not too far from here"

~"Not Too Far From Here" sung by Michael Crawford

Dear Death

Dear Death,

We're old friends, you and I. I've walked and flirted and danced with you but you've yet to take me home with you. Instead you leave me here with Life. Do you know what he does to me, Death? The tortures he pains me with, the horrors he's inflicted on me? Why must you leave me here with Life? He has tormented me nonstop for years. Each day he makes me long more and more for your embrace, my dear friend. Why do you withhold your sweet rest from me? When will you allow me to run into your arms? Life says that I must remain here with him until he is ready to release me, but I know you can override his wishes if you so desire. Even I could override his wishes if I but had enough courage. I think that I will have that courage soon. Soon I will be clasped in your waiting arms, sweet Death, and leave this wretched Life behind forever.

Yours,
Threnody

Note: no freaking out, dear readers. The crisis that inspired this missive is past and gone. But upon finding it hiding in my journal I could not but share it with you.

I miss my Worgen DK

This one, while awesome, just isn't the same.

Because it's miraculous when small children believe what you tell them is the truth.

For, Again

For the arms that held me fast
For the memories now past
For the days and sleepless nights
For the tears of wasted fights

For the lack of where to flee
For the worthlessness of me
For the drifting here and there
For the peace that comes so near

For the empty nights of fear
For the road that's never clear
For the love I once possessed
For the Loves I once distressed

For the touches I now lack
For the darkness deep and black
For the love I did not show
For the Son I barely know

For the path trod all alone
For the sins I must atone
For the selfish things I've said
For the always that's now dead

for all these I seek release
for all these I weep tonight
for all these I search for peace
for all these my cries take flight

I look at how much trouble I have giving even my cats enough attention and know my son is in the right place. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, sometimes. It doesn't mean I wish things could have been different. But this is the way things are and I really think that they've turned out as well as can be expected.

I Weep

I weep for memories past
But I do not wish to relive them

I weep for loves discarded
But I do not wish to feel them

I weep for tears shed
But I do not wish to cry them

I weep for dreams replaced
But I do not wish to dream them

I weep for choices made
But I do not wish to repeat them

I weep for chances not taken
But I do not wish to take them

I weep for friendships broken
But I do not wish to repair them

I weep for faith misplaced
But I do not wish to believe

I weep for arms that comforted
But I do not wish to be held

I have a dream...

That when a dk stands at the dungeon entrance and does nothing, my sexuality is not used as an insult.

That when the Alliance is beaten in a bg by the Horde three flags to none they do not claim to be victims of sexual violence.

That when an LFR group wipes on the first boss and half of them leave, the rest don't claim that they were of my sexuality.

I Love <Blank>

Gay

Straight

Bisexual

Pansexual

There's a lot of words to describe one's sexual orientation. But most of them seem to be based not on who we love, but on who we are. And frankly, I find that confusing. Here's why.

I don't know who I am. I was born with a woman's body, and I have identified as a woman for years. Yet something was always just a little bit off with that. It wasn't quite right, it wasn't quite me. And then I finally figure out that hey, I like women! So that makes me gay, right? Well...sort of. Because you see, I don't identify as a woman anymore, not completely. Nor do I identify as a man. I'm neither, something in between with elements of both. So does the word "gay" fit me? I love women, but I'm not quite a woman. The word "straight" definitely doesn't work here. I suppose you could try to shove me into bisexual, but I think we can all agree that's pushing it.

So I think we need a new method of describing ourselves. One that doesn't mean "I'm a woman or a man who likes women or men" but one that simply says "I love <blank>."

Far Far Away

"She passes the days, one after the other
She never sees, she never hears
Counting the hours, her life is a rerun
A series of failures rolled into one

When she was young, she looked to the future
Eyes full of promise heart full of joy
How had the road twisted so harshly
Can these two women be one and the same?

Once she dreamed of romance
Once she imagined she lived in a castle
Once she held the world in her hands
Once was a long time ago
Far far away

How her mind aches, her life's been a hard one
Filled with such sorrow, no girl should know
How her heart aches, she's loved and she's lost
Some say it's better, but she disagrees

Once she dreamed of romance
Once she imagined she lived in a castle
Once she held the world in her hands
Once was a long time ago
Far far away

When she was young she looked to the future
Eyes full of promise, heart full of joy
How had the road twisted so harshly
Can these two women be one and the same?

She passes the day, one after the other
Looking for romance
Far far away"

~Far Far Away by Blackmore's Night

I have not written in nearly a month, and nothing of substance for a month beyond that. I do not apologize for that; after all, this blog, in whatever incarnation, has always been for me, not you. Yet writing is one of my life's purposes. Without words, I wither. So I shall do my best to start writing more.

And down we fall, down the slippery slope into madness, and there is nothing to stop our slide.

Sometimes beauty hurts. I see a lake, a tree, a cake, a girl, and there is so much beauty I have to look away because it just hurts.

I wasn't born with depression. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have been better if I had been. Because I remember life before depression. I remember what it felt like to be free. I remember what it felt like to laugh wholeheartedly. I remember what it was like, and my life feels so empty now.

It hurts to hear the hope in my father's voice when he hears I've visited a church with friends. Because I know that he will never accept who I am, and will probably pray to his dying breath that I find "the truth." I wish he could accept that I've already found it.

I Choose to Look Through My Own Eyes

And what is it that my own eyes tell me? Who do my eyes say that I am? My eyes tell me that I have endured more in my 23 years of life than some people do in a lifetime. My eyes see that while I may be broken inside, I am still standing. My eyes see that though I have suffered betrayal after betrayal, I have lost neither the ability to trust nor the will to hope. My eyes see that even though I have been tempted to give up time and time again, through sheer stubbornness I continue to move forward. My eyes tell me that I may focus on myself a lot, but I am always willing to help a friend, enemy, or stranger who needs me. My eyes tell me that I am not weak, but strong. And my eyes tell me that while I will always have room to grow as a human being, I can be proud of who I am right now, today.

In browsing my website stats I've noticed that some people have been attempting to follow links that no longer exist, specifically to darknesseverpressing.com (or .blogspot.com), iplaywithmarkers.com (or .blogspot.com), or untwistingthetangledweb.com (or undertakingliberty.blogspot.com). I realize that all links that go to those sites are broken or blocked, and I apologize for that. I am making it my mission to go through and fix all those links, but it will probably take a while. Thanks for your patience and understanding.

Christians like to look at Easter and say "Look how much God loves us!" I tend to look at Black Friday and say, "Look how God treats those he loves!"

A Letter to a Hero That Has Let You Down

I struggled for a long time with this post, finding a hero that I've had at all. See, I learned pretty early that people would always disappoint me, so I was never much one to idolize anyone. At first I thought, I will do a post about God! But then I thought...God didn't let me down, because he never existed in the first place. That's like saying Frodo let me down. You could make a case for it in a figurative sense but it doesn't really fit. But eventually I thought of one. Or two, really, but I shall write to just one.

Dear Daddy,

My eyes are tearing up just starting to write to you. And I can't help but be reminded of all the other times I've done the same thing. And then I can't help but think of all the times you got such letters and promised to do better and then...never did a thing. See, you're my daddy. I always looked up to you. Remember how you used to sing to me?
"Daddy loves his Katy Beth girl
Katy Beth girl
Katy Beth girl
Daddy loves his Katy Beth girl
She's his bundle of joy."
But when I was abused and needed your protection, you said that I had sinned. And then you made a rule that plunged me further into shame and said "we will never talk about this again." And so I hid. I hid my shame, with no one to talk to. I should have been able to talk to you, Daddy. And eventually when I grew older and disregarded the rule and tried to talk to you, you always put me off or changed the subject. And then you told me that you would not get me the help I so desperately needed. You told me "if I could not do it on my own then no counselor would be able to help me." You let me down, Daddy. I often get harsh with Mommy for how she acted towards me, but you are the one I went to when I needed help, you are the one I trusted, and you are the one that let me down.
I still love you, Daddy. But when I became pregnant with a baby that I was not ready for, instead of helping, you took the opportunity to say I told you so. When I got married I could not count on you even coming, though you eventually did...but only after your own daddy told you to. My wedding was a glorious day and I was too excited, and too cold (brrr) to pay attention to what you said. But I watched it later and you took the opportunity IN THE MIDDLE OF MY WEDDING to cast your doubts on how long it would last. "We don't know if this marriage will last but we hope it does." Really? Who says that at their daughter's wedding? You do, Daddy. You let me down.
I love you, Daddy. But when that marriage did dissolve, you again could not wait to say I told you so, although the reasons it did had nothing to do with your reasons for not wanting me to get married. And when I needed a place to live where I could be closer to my son than I had been for the last few months, you hemmed and hawed until I withdrew the question. You let me down, Daddy.
I won't talk about your reaction to my coming out, mostly because you didn't react. You seem to have made yourself a rule much like the rule that made my childhood hell..."we will never speak of this." I want you to know, Daddy, that ignoring something doesn't make it go away. I would have thought you would have learned that by now.
So I just wanted to say, Daddy, that I still love you, and I always will, no matter what you do. I just wish that you wouldn't have let me down.

Love,
Your Katy Beth girl

Life is a Wondrous Thing

A while back one of my friends posted on Facebook about how much she was looking forward to Heaven and that this life is just preparation for that one, a poor foreshadowing of what is to come. I took exception to that and we had a brief discussion. She, understandably, looked at my life and wondered how in the world I was content with it, how I could possibly say that this life is glorious and wonderful and I have no need for Heaven. It is a fair question, wouldn't you say?

So ever since then, I have had this idea knocking about in my head. You all know that I know all too well the darker side of life. I am overly familiar with pain and heartache, and loss and tears. But just because I live in the dark does not mean the light any less beautiful, or amazing, or wonderful. I live in the dark through a series of choices, both mine and others', and because my brain has forgotten how to be happy for more than brief moments. But does my experience with life make life any less wonderful? Do my tears make the sun shine less brightly? Does my pain prevent the world from singing? Do the shadows in my head make the waterfalls cease and the streams dry up? If I am sad is the whole world sad?

The answer to those questions, obviously, is no. Just because sometimes life sucks for me, doesn't mean life is sucky. But this is broad, and vague. It still doesn't explain why I, myself, do not long for a heaven, or why I myself am content to live this life. And here's the thing. I know why my life is the way it is. And I also know that there are things that could be done to help bring me out of the dark and into the light. And some of those things I try to do, and some I am not able to do at this point. But I know that even for me, life can be wonderful. Indeed, even for me, life IS wonderful...even in the midst of my pain.

I look at pictures of fat chubby not "thin" girls and find them cute and/or attractive. So I wonder why it is that I think no one will find me attractive?

People assume sexuality is a strict progression of gay and straight but from a non judgmental realistic viewpoint it's more of a big ball of wibbly wobbly sexy wexy stuff. ~ this person on Tumblr

We Do Not Rape Girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls if they're drunk
We do not rape girls in a trunk
We do not rape girls on a boat
We do not rape girls on a coat
We do not rape girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls in short skirts
We do not rape girls in tight shirts
We do not rape them if they're there
We do not rape them if they stare
We do not raps girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls here or there
We do not rape girls anywhere
We do not rape girls if they're high
We do not rape girls if they're sly
We do not rape girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls who say no
We do not rape girls who say go
We do not rape girls to us wed
We do not rape girls in our bed
We do not rape girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls young or old
We do not rape girls hot or cold
We do not rape girls thin or thick
We do not rape girls well or sick
We do not rape girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls who passed out
We do not rape girls clothed in nought
We do not rape girls in a bar
We do not rape girls in a car
We do not rape girls, Sam I Am

We do not rape girls if they glance
We do not rape girls at a dance
We do not rape girls one by one
We do not rape girls if it's fun
We do not rape girls, Sam I Am

Classy WoW

I'm a nerd. Anyone surprised? No? Good. I also play World of Warcraft. And recently I've made it a goal of mine to get a character (or "toon") of every race/class combo first to level 20, and then eventually to level cap, or whatever the level cap is on the account the toon is on. I have many accounts, but not all of them have all the expansions, you see. No, I don't pay for all of the accounts to have gametime every month either, in case you were wondering. I usually only pay for one or two. So anyway, to facilitate that goal, I've made a spreadsheet detailing how far I've come and such. Through the magic of Google (all hail the great Google!) I've placed it here, online, for all your viewing pleasure. I'm honestly surprised that I'm not any further along than I am, but then, I have a disturbing habit of deleting alts so I can start new ones. Names in parenthesis are names I've decided on for a particular combo but haven't actually made yet. It's a fun list!

Of Two Minds

I want to die
To leave this world
To be free of its
Anger, fear, and hate

I want to live
To enjoy this world
To be free in its
Peace, joy, and love

A Letter to a Band or Artist that Has Gotten You Through Some Tough Days

Dear Evanescence,
You truly mean the world to me. I've struggled with depression for far too long, but your music gives my pain a voice. Indeed, I often feel like you've been peeking at my life or looking into my head for inspiration. Your self-titled album helped me though my recent break-up after having been married more than two years. It was all I listened to for a month...in the car, on break at work, and late into the night.
If not for you, dear Evanescence, I think that I would have died. Your music reflects the pain I have inside, and by doing so, lessens it. So I thank you, and I hope you keep making beautiful music for a very long time.
Peace,
Threnody

Something You Never Get Compliments On

My mature and well-adjusted personality! I don't know why, since I am the most mature and well-adjusted individual I've ever had the pleasure to meet!
All joking aside, I suppose I can whine about my lack of musical talent some more. You know the stories about prodigies who lived and breathed music all their lives growing up and turn out to be extremely talented and can do anything musically? I got one out of three of those (hint, it's the first one). I grew up in a music teacher/pastor's home, so I was inundated with music of a certain variety. My eldest brother is insanely talent and should go on the Voice (or similar show) and get a record deal or something. My second brother has some talent too, though I do not know if he was ever as interested in developing it as the eldest. Then there is the third child, also gifted with an extremely talented voice. And it looks like the younger one has inherited the talent as well, though he would rather play Call of Duty than sing. As for me, well...I sing, but not well. I am often off-key and I can't stay on a part by myself to save my life. I play the piano, but only at what I would consider a late intermediate or maybe early advanced level. I taught myself to play the recorder, but really anyone who can blow can play a recorder. For example my two-year-old son has already figured out how to cover different holes for different sounds. He'll probably pass me up by the time he is four. And finally I play the clarinet and bass clarinet. I taught myself how to play those as well, which may be why I absolutely suck at it. Or blow, to use a double (triple?) meaning.
Oh. I do actually get compliments on the piano playing, from my mother. I operate on the assumption that family members don't count. But for the most part, I don't get compliment on my musical abilities, because I don't deserve it. I still wish I did, though! Deserve it, that is. Undeserved compliments are just kind of stupid.

Something People Seem to Compliment You the Most On

Harking back to day two, I will have to respond "my way with words." I do have great power with words, and to my credit I have (as far as I can remember) never used those words for evil. Although I will admit that I have wanted to, at times. But I write, and people tell me things like "that post moved me to tears" or "you ripped my heart out with that poem" or just simply "you're a really good writer."
If it isn't words, people usually say something about my art. This surprises me, since my artwork is limited to doodling here and there. Of course, the one thing that I really, really want to get compliments on I never do, but I have whined about that once already, I have no need to explore it further, at least, not in this post.

Someone You Need to Let Go, or Wish You Did Not Know

This one is difficult, because I literally cannot think of anyone. You see, when a friend or acquaintance becomes somebody I do not wish to associate with any longer, well - I stop associating with them. Many times I do this prematurely and later regret it. Sometimes the damage can be mended if I swallow my pride and apologize, and I have done this more times than I want to admit. But it only very rarely happens that I retain the companionship of someone that I feel is bad for me in some way. The reason for this is simple: life is short, and I do not need to waste precious mental and emotional resources (which are scarce) trying to maintain a friendship that will only bring me down.
Now, for the other part of the question...I do not know anybody that I wish I did not know. I am the sum of my experiences, and the people I have come across in my life have all done their part to contribute to those experiences. Some have contributed negatively, some positively, and some (the vast majority) have done both. No, I would not change the people I have known, not for the world.

So That I Might Feel

Oh hey there, depression. I would say welcome back, but then, you never really left, did you? Of course, you have so many different forms. Feeling so utterly sad and angry and worthless after breaking up with not one but two partners was to be expected, I think. And of course you've dragged me up and down the scales from nearly happy to despair time and time again. But this...this is that depression that makes everything seem like nothing. I moved back to Wisconsin to be closer to my son, and I love seeing him. But underneath that love, underneath everything, is emptiness. Nothingness. Not darkness, not shadow, not even pain. This is the void that makes even emotions emotionless. I feel love and yet I feel emptiness. I feel pain and yet I feel nothing.
I've developed a bit of a temper over the last four or five years. Or perhaps it has been there for a long time and I have merely started letting it loose a bit. Or more than a bit. But right now, right here, alone with the void...I feel no anger. I am incapable of the passion that would require.
People have often wondered why it is that I am a cutter. After all, they reason, if I am in so much pain, why would I add to it? And to be sure I have cut because of pain. But right here, right now, my hand itches for the blade merely so that I can feel.

Hi blog readers, all two of you. Sorry for my long and unannounced hiatus. I was living in a horror film known as "The Land of No Internet," alternatively entitled "Visiting My Parents." But I am safely ensconced in my new home, awaiting first contact with my new roommates, and I have written you some blog posts, continuing the "Thirty Days of Truth" challenge. I shall post them shortly, by which I mean, sometime, by which I mean, probably tomorrow.

Someone You Didn't Mean to Let Go, But Just Drifted

Ah, my friend Squishy. That is not her real name, of course, it was one of her nicknames. I had one too, but I don't remember what it was, something like Fluffy or Floofy.

Squishy was my best friend growing up. Or at least, those years of growing up where you start forming best-friend attachments. We moved to Squishy's town when I was, oh dear, I'm not sure. Ten or eleven.  She was our pastor's daughter, and we hit it off right away. It was actually one of those times when our parents were like, "Oh, Squishy and Threnody are close in age, they should be really good friends!" And surprisingly, we were. I say surprisingly, because I'm the sort of person that is likely to hear that sort of thing and be like, "Oh, you want me to be friends? Well then I don't like her at all. So there." Squishy taught me to love soccer, and we played in the city league together for two years, spring and fall. When Squishy and I met, we were two years apart in school. She was in 6th grade, and I was in 4th. That was fine, for a year. But then Squishy graduated to the teen class in Sunday School/junior church/Wednesday night and I was very lonely. So I took 5th and 6th grade in the same year so that I could catch up. This might have been the beginning of people around me identifying me as a nerd. But, I caught up, and we had a ton of fun together. We went to camp together, we made plans to go to Northland together for college, we were inseparable. And then of course, my family moved away. I say of course because my family has yet to live in one place more than four years, at least not while I lived with them. Currently they're living in the same house they were when I went to college, but they haven't been there the whole time. So they might have exceeded the four year mark, but not consecutively. So we moved away, and our friendship kind of drifted. I had (still do, actually) what amounts to nearly a phobia about talking on the phone. I hate doing it. I don't know why, but I will avoid talking on the phone if it is in any way possible. So we sent a few letters back and forth, but for the most part we didn't really communicate very much. She was a year ahead of me, and when she graduated high school she went to the University in the town she lived in. I honestly didn't really expect to see her ever again.

But then I went to college. Not Northland, the college my eldest brothers went to. I followed my other brother to Maranatha, jokingly calling us traitors all the while. And I got to my dorm, and unloaded my stuff; I was there early, for soccer tryouts (I was too lazy to do well. I was one of three people who didn't make the team). After about a week, the day came for all the normal students to arrive, and many of the room leaders started putting up little signs with their roommates names on so they would know which room to go to. Imagine my absolute SHOCK when the room leader next to me put up a sign with Squishy's name on it! I mean, she doesn't have an extremely common name. So I called her, right then and there. And she answered, and said something about them unpacking at the hotel, and she would talk to me later, and bye. So anyway, by some magic we ended up at the same college, at the same time, in the same dorm, on the same floor. It was one of those coincidences that never happens, except for that it did.

Squishy and I got along pretty good that year. I helped her though a lot of tough times; her home church (my old church) was treating her father like shit, her mom had to get a job and her dad was working at Walmart as well as being a pastor so that their family had enough to survive on. She persuaded me to join the school band, which was probably the most awesome thing I did at college. We had a good time. The next year I had a job and lived off-campus, so I really didn't see her much. And then I started dating, so my free time was spent hanging out with my boyfriend/fiance and his friends. And we just drifted apart. After I got kicked out, she made an effort to talk to me online a bit, which I appreciated. But I think the last time we talked was when she canceled our plans to meet at Taco Bell for supper one night because she was afraid the deans would find out and punish her (see previous post about the deans making my life hell). I didn't blame her for that, but we never really talked after that.

Sometimes I miss my Squishy. I don't really know what's up with her life, despite the fact that we're still facebook friends, but I wish her all the best in the world.

Nice Broken People

I wonder how many nice people are broken.

I used to be a very self-sacrificing person. I would go out of my way to do things for other people, or be nice to other people, even to my own detriment on occasion. The reasons for that of course were varied, but two main ones come to mind. One, I genuinely enjoy making people smile...hearing "Oh, you didn't have to do that" and responding, "I know, but I wanted to," not from any ulterior motive, but because there is an honest joy in caring for the people around you. In some ways, too, being kind to others fights depression, because it helps you realize that, while depression is focused on self (not in a selfish way, though), making others happy makes you think about something else for a while.

The other reason is because I wanted people to like me, or to love me. Growing up Christian and especially Baptist taught me, purposefully or not, that love is a thing that you earn, and that it is perfectly acceptable to withhold love from someone who is unhappy with you. That may seem odd to you, since Christianity is supposed to be all about loving people no matter what. I don't pretend to understand it at all, but there it is. I thought, that if I was kind and did nice things for people, that they would like me. And, really, I was right. After all, nice people usually have friends, and I did meet a lot of people and made quite a few friends.

Eventually, as I grew, and healed, and became less broken (though by no means whole) I grew less nice. I still enjoyed (and do even to this day) doing nice things for people, and genuinely giving someone else joy still brightens my whole day. But I started doing it less and less. I began to realize that love and friendship should not be and are not based on how many nice things you do for the other person. A friendship that is based only on those things isn't a very deep or lasting relationship. And I learned that a true friend would accept me no matter what.

So now I'm more of a normal person. I'm not a "nice" person, not overtly. Sometimes I'm even kind of an asshole. But I'm more real, and I don't expect people to like or dislike me based on how many nice things I do or don't do for them. I expect people to love me for me. But I wonder, how many people are like I was? How many nice people are broken?

Somebody Who Made Your Life Hell

There were a lot of options for this post, unsurprisingly. The first option that came to mind was good old BnK, and they did indeed make my life hell, the kind of hell that comes from the deepest kind of friendship betrayed. But I already blasted B in a non-challenge post last night, so I figure I can do something else tonight.

After BnK come the deans* of my former college. They put me through the kind of hell that religious fundamentalists come up with when the power they hold goes to their head. I got kicked out of school for giving my fiance a blowjob, plus the other assorted touchings and holdings that tend to come with that sort of activity. He, of course, got kicked out for getting a blowjob. And to this day, I'm not upset about getting kicked out of school. Sexual activity of any kind was prohibited there, and he and I knew that when we signed up. Indeed, it was against our own standards as well as the college's. It was how they treated me after that, that put me through hell.

You see, they ostracized me. They isolated me from everyone I knew. I wasn't from Watertown, I was from Indianapolis. I moved to Watertown for the sole reason of going to school there. So it follows that everyone I knew there, every friend I had, was a Maranatha student or faculty member. They forbade me from coming on campus, aside from the mandatory counseling meetings I was in for almost two years after they booted me out. Why would I agree to mandatory counseling from a school I was no longer enrolled in? Because they were, effectively, holding my life hostage. I struggled with depression far, far more then than I do now. I needed my friends. And they used their power to keep my friends from me. Now you may say, "Well, that is what they do to all expelled students to keep from corrupting current students." Which is what I thought at first, until I compared the way they were treating my fiance, who was kicked out at the same time for the same reasons as I was, to the way they were treating me. It went something like this:

Him: "Hi deans, may I come on campus and hang out in the coffee shop with my friends as long as I want?"
Them: "Sure! And it's nice to see you again! And you don't have to worry about being in dress code."

Me: "Hi deans, can I walk through the coffee shop to say hi to my friends on my way to or from the mandatory counseling you have me in?"
Them: "No. And make sure you're in dress code. And if we see anybody talking to you we will be very, very unhappy."

You see what I mean? This went on for TWO YEARS. About a year after I got expelled, I married my fiance. I should have been eligible to return to school that spring, but they didn't want me to. "Wait until the fall," they said. "You can come back in the fall." So we got married that spring. Then we went to apply for the fall semester. "Oh, you guys are newlyweds, you really need time to get used to being married and all that." Keep in mind, this is the school that had just that year changed their rules to allow students to get married mid-semester. Before that, the rule was only that you couldn't get married within two weeks of the beginning of the semester. We obviously fell far outside that timeline. They really had no reason to keep me out. I had done all the things they requested, had been doing them for nearly two years at that point, and still they treated me like an outcast, requiring me to be in dress code, informing me of what church I was allowed to go to (the one in town, so they could keep an eye on me. Literally. They said "We want you to go to Calvary so that we can keep an eye on you."), not allowing my friends to meet me off or on compus.

If you wanted to know what was the absolute biggest thing that made me first question Christianity, it was the deans. The deans who kept saying "we just want the best for you, Katy." The deans who kept saying, "we know God's will for your life, Katy." The deans who kept saying, "we are your authorities, Katy, even though we kicked you out of our school." The deans who kept saying, "we are showing the love of God in our actions towards you, Katy." Of course, that wasn't the sole reason I started to question my faith, but it was the biggest thing that started me down that road.

So, there you go. Renee Westphall and Doug Richards are two of the biggest hypocrites I have ever known, and they made my life hell.

*you may have noticed that I do not include Rob Cronin in my scathing indictment. That is because, as far as I could observe, he did not agree and did not condone the attitudes or actions of the other two. But for some strange reason, the Dean of Students and the Dean of Women held all the power at my school, the Dean of Men had literally no say at all. For example, if I called to ask a dean if I could come on campus and got him on the phone, I cannot count how many times he would be like, "Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem, just let me go check with Miss Westphall or Mr. Richards." And then he would come back and have to say, "Sorry, but it looks like coming on campus would be a bad idea at this point." He knew there was no reason to keep me away aside from vindictiveness, but he had no say, none at all.

Someone Who Has Made Your Life Worth Living For

There are two sides to this concept. Someone who has made my life worth living in the past, and someone who does so, right now. In the past of course, that was my Love. He was my rock and strong tower, the immovable fortress I always ran to. Now he is almost the opposite; now, he has almost made me life worth leaving.

But I am not going to leave this life, because I have someone worth living for, right now. He is all I truly have in this world, and though he is far, far away, he still gives me a purpose, a reason to keep living, day by day by day. I speak of, course, of my Son. Without him I probably would have given up when my Loves first broke up with me. Without him I certainly would have in the many days since. He is the reason I keep breathing, and though hopefully I will find other reasons to live, and love, and laugh, for now he is my lifeline. I love you, Son.

Something You Hope You Never Have to Do

There aren't many things that spring to mind for this challenge. In fact, I am having trouble thinking of any. Hoping never to have to do something is about the same as fearing something, right? And for me...my fears for the most part have all come true. And it has kind of always been that way for me. In fact, if I start worrying about something, it's less in the sense of "I hope this doesn't happen" and more in the sense of "knowing my luck this is going to happen eventually so I best prepare for it." Some people call this pessimism, and I suppose they have a point. I call it realism. I do not exclude hope or think that only bad things are going to happen, but I do realize that in this completely fucked-up world we live in, bad things can and will happen. 

But for the purposes of this challenge, I should come up with something specific, something I hope I never have to do. Grrr. Literally everything that is coming to mind is something that I've already had to do. I guess I will have to modify it then, to "something I hope I never have to do again." I hope, indeed I pray to whatever gods might hear, that I never have to let a Love go again. I hope that if I ever find a Lover again, that Love lasts. Losing one Love is bad enough, but I've already lost two, and that is more than enough for any lifetime.

B

So I was just listening to the soundtrack from Phantom of the Opera, and there's a bit with the Phantom saying, "if pride will let her [Christine] return to me, her teacher." And you know, normal people look at that and are like, um, it isn't pride keeping her away, idiot. It's common sense and her doing what is best for her because you're a nutcase.

But then I was thinking, that really seems very familiar. And then I thought of it! I had a friend who was like that. We broke off friendship with him (a few times, actually) because we had to do what was best for ourselves, and he was dragging us down, spiritually, emotionally, mentally, etc. But that was pretty much his response, nearly verbatim. It's interesting and crazy how different people view the same thing from different sides.

Of course, I am more like Christine than I want to be, because I attempted to do just that...return. It is all for the best though, trust me on that. This is someone who attempted to turn all my friends away from me, attempted to isolate and control me, who used manipulation and fear and domination to try to keep me on the path HE wanted for my life. All in all, he does sound very like the Phantom, doesn't he?

Something You Hope to Do in Your Life

There are so many things that I could put here, from the unlikely (I want to learn to sword-fight ) to the distant possibility (I want to go skydiving!) to the dream (I want to publish a book!) to the emotional (I want to be happy!) to the romantic (I want to fall in love!) to the scholastic (I want to get a college degree and maybe a doctorate!). Etc. And I think for today, I need a break from emotional, depressed thinking.

So, sword-fighting it is! Now, let me clarify. I'm not talking about fencing, which is fine for some people. And I'm not really talking about big old two-handed broadsword fighting, either. I want to learn something in between, maybe a style with two short swords or a sword and a dagger or even a sword and a shield. And along with that I want to learn sword dancing. The problem is I don't even know if sword dancing is a thing that exists outside my favorite fantasy books. Maybe if it isn't, I should invent it. But that would require the first thing, learning how to fight with a sword, or at least handle one somewhat competently. So, if anyone knows anybody who teaches sword fighting or dancing lessons in the Milwaukee or Madison area (where hopefully I will be eventually), let me know.

I haven't gotten a post written for tonight's challenge yet. I will try to have one or two up tomorrow.

Something You Have to Forgive Someone For

A lot of people have hurt me over the years. I have many scars that I could point to and say, "Your words caused this, your actions drove the blade, your thoughtlessness made me bleed." Most of them I have forgiven, or am forgiving. I find that forgiveness is more of a continual choosing than a one-time decision, don't you? But which of these actions of which of these people shall I write about today?

Bradley and Katherine Menne keep springing to the top of the list. But which of the many ways that they have hurt me should I write about? What do I have yet to forgive them for? I know of their lies and the knives they twisted in my back. I know of the ways they tried to turn my friends from me. And while I may not have forgiven them for everything, still, their actions hold no power over me anymore. If anything it serves as a conversation topic between me and the people they failed to convince of my evilness.

Or perhaps my parents. After all, the way they raised me bordered on abuse, and the way they treated actual abuse caused me problems that I am still dealing with today. And I mean that literally. Today as in this exact moment. But I have said that I forgive them, and though it is a process that even years later I struggle with, I have forgiven them.

The most recent and painful ones are my two Loves. Yet, I have written about them before. And as much as I am able, I have forgiven them, though they have not asked and likely never will. To ask my forgiveness would be to admit that they have been wrong, and I do not see them doing that. Not for a long time, anyway.

I nicknamed the Dean of Women at my school the Great Satan, and she bears the name well. Whose idea was it anyway to give a position counseling girls, many of whom are in relationships, to a woman who hates men? I have not forgiven the Great Satan for what she did to me, nor for what she did to friends of mine. I do not see the need to. It causes me no harm to continue to hate her; on the contrary, every time I think about her I chuckle a little. How furious she would be if she knew! But then, she hated me as well. You should have seen her face the day she saw me in the choir loft, 8 months pregnant with a child conceived out of wedlock. If looks could kill, I probably would have burst into flames. And then she would have been upset about that, because pyrotechnics most definitely do not fit her idea of a good Baptist Sunday morning service. You see? She makes me smile.

But I think the person I need to forgive is my brother. He abused me and started this whole mess spinning. I was not depressed before that. My parents were not so quick to anger. I did not have self-esteem issues stemming from an adolescence of feeling guilty for being abused. In short, life was normal, as normal as life ever is for somebody who had been abused twice already before the age of ten. It is hard to forgive him because he does not think he has done anything wrong. To him what happened between us was no more serious than children playing "doctor." Almost two years ago I asked him why? Why had he abused me? And his answer was along the lines of "I thought you wanted it because of the stuff you did with <neighbor children> and <a cousin>." So I asked him, "So basically you're saying I was an 8-year-old slut?" And he replied something like, "Pretty much." To clarify, I was about four when we moved away from the neighbor children, so whatever happened with them happened when I was four years old or younger. And what happened? I do not know. I remember the event my brother is referring to, somewhat. To be precise, I remember before, and I remember after. But I have no idea what actually happened. Possibly my brother does, but it is not something I feel like asking him at this point in my life. The incident with my cousin I remember much more clearly, and though it was nonviolent and not even especially traumatizing (as much as such things can ever be non-traumatic), it is nothing that would give anyone cause to consider me an "8-year-old slut." It is so hard to forgive him. But unlike other people who I have not forgiven, I feel the need to do so. So there it is. I need to forgive my brother for abusing me, and for acting like doing so is no big deal.

Something You Have to Forgive Yourself For

Oh dear. This is a tough one. I suppose I could go the easy way and take Day One's topic. After all, if weakness is something I hate about myself, isn't it something I need to forgive myself for? But I think not. Weakness is something that needs to be eradicated, not forgiven. I keep running into a problem with these challenges, where I think I need to write about the thing I most hate about myself, or the one thing I most love about myself, or the biggest thing I need to forgiven myself for. But I don't. I can write about anything, big or small. I could completely trivialize these by writing flippantly about tiny things, or traumatize myself by writing epic narratives about the biggest and worst things in my life, but instead I think I will choose to be real.

I need to forgive myself for being a bad mother. Now, we can argue up and down about motherhood and what makes one a good or bad parent, but the truth of the matter is that when it comes to being a mother, I did many things I regret. And for those things, without negating them or trivializing what was wrong with them, I need to forgive myself.

I need to forgive myself for allowing depression to come between me and my love for my son.

I need to forgive myself for attempting to take the easy way out of parenthood by considering and planning to give my son up for adoption.

I need to forgive myself for losing my temper and screaming and swearing at my son, not once but far too many times.

I need to forgive myself for dumping all the responsibilities of motherhood on my Love as soon as she entered our relationship.

I need to forgive myself for being distant emotionally, mentally, and physically from my son when he needed me.

I need to forgive myself for all of these things. One day, I hope my son will forgive me as well.

Something You Love About Yourself

Words. I love the power I have with words. I have the power to move you to tears or make you laugh, to disgust you or enthrall you, inspire or depress you. I have done all these things before, and I shall, hopefully, do them all again.

There are a lot of rules to making words. Do this, do that, transition, topic sentence, thesis, conclusion, etc etc etc. For the most part, however, I ignore those rules. Oh, there are a few I follow religiously (mostly spelling and grammar rules) and some I follow when I feel like it (like the rules for formal/informal writing). There are even a few rules I have made up for myself: whitespace between paragraphs, very few contractions, the most vivid words I can think of.

But for the most parts, my power with words is something instinctual, not contrived. I write the way I do because the words just flow. I run out of words much more quickly when I am trying to fit them to some preconceived pattern. The only exception to this is poetry. Oftentimes with that a couplet starts worming its way through my head, and along the way it picks up some rules. Sometimes it wants to rhyme. Sometimes it most emphatically does not. Sometimes it wants to express itself in two or three syllable lines. Sometimes it wants iambic pentameter (although in general I discover this is what I have written after the fact, not while I am actually writing).

Today, I spent some time reading back through the last year or so of my blog. I wept, I wanted to cut, I wanted to die, I laughed, I marveled, I rose high and fell further. All because of my words. Perhaps it was because they were my own words that they moved me so deeply, but even those who hate me have told me that my words move them.

When I was growing up, I wanted to be good at music. Music is the family tradition, after all. Everyone in my family is musical, except for perhaps my mother, and what she lacks in talent she makes up for in enthusiasm. We are somewhat alike in that way. And while I am competent at playing the piano and clarinet and recorder and singing, I am not talented like the rest of my family. I still haven't gotten over that completely, but somewhere along the way I discovered a talent of my own. Words. I am talented with words in a way nobody else in my family is (though they have their own literary talents, they are different from mine).

Words are my weapon, and I wield them, for good or ill, with power.

Something I Hate About Myself

The first and most obvious thought was depression. But depression is a tricky thing, it is part of me, and yet not part of me. But as I thought about it further, I found a better candidate for this post. It is weakness.

Weakness has caused so many problems in my life. I was too weak to stand up to myself for the principles I once believed in, and got kicked out of school. And then pregnant out of wedlock. And of course there was the cutting, which is as tricky as depression in its own way. On the one hand, you have incredible strength, the strength to make yourself bleed over and over and over again. But on the other hand, you have weakness, the inability and unwillingness to stop yourself from bleeding over and over again, the reluctance and refusal to face down the addiction and free yourself from it. And I have often wondered if being willing to face myself would have brought me to the knowledge of my own sexual orientation sooner. I suppose for that there is no way to tell.

Of course those are not the only problems I have faced because of weakness, especially when coupled with its shadow, laziness. All new mothers struggle, but I struggled far, far more than I needed to. I was too weak to face what needed to be done, and do it. Instead I looked for ways out, tried to run away rather than be strong enough to love. And there are many ways that weakness factored into the dissolving of my marriage and my partnership and the losing of my family and home, perhaps too many to count. I know two people you could ask if you wanted a list.

Weakness shies away from facing up to those things about yourself you do not like, and tells you that you are not strong enough to change those things anyway (or is that depression? Perhaps in this instance they are alike). It faces the challenges and hardships of life and runs away to hide behind razor blades, or words, or doodles, or games, or whatever is easiest. Weakness looks at "must" and says "I can't." Weakness says it is too hard to become strong. But it is strength that I need and become strong I must.

Thirty Days of Truth

So, nearly a year ago, a friend of mine started a "thirty days of truth" challenge on his blog. I watched, sort of, and was mostly glad it wasn't me. Of course, it didn't help that someone I hated was doing the same thing on the same blog, so I couldn't read one without running into the other. The challenge fizzled partway through, and I'll admit I was immature enough to find some amusement in that. At that point in my life, I was keeping up with three or four different blogs. I never lacked something to write about, and I almost saw such a challenge as a crutch for those people not good enough to come up with something for themselves. Now my friend has started the challenge on his new blog, and rather than being dismissive, I am intrigued. And besides, if such a thing is a crutch, it is a crutch that I am in need of right now. So I will attempt to write thirty days of truth. I will, as I always have, put my heart and soul on these pages for you to crush, or ignore, or love, according to your various natures.

Day 01 : Something you hate about yourself.

Day 02 : Something you love about yourself.

Day 03 : Something you have to forgive yourself for.

Day 04 : Something you have to forgive someone for.

Day 05 : Something you hope to do in your life.

Day 06 : Something you hope you never have to do.

Day 07 : Someone who has made your life worth living for.

Day 08 : Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.

Day 09 : Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.

Day 10: Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn't know.
Day 11 : Something people seem to compliment you the most on.

Day 12 : Something you never get compliments on.

Day 13 : A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough days. (write a letter.)

Day 14 : A hero that has let you down. (letter)

Day 15 : Something or someone you could not live without, because you have tried living without it.

Day 16 : Someone or something you definitely could live without.

Day 17 : A book you have read that changed your views on something.

Day 18 : Your views on marriage.

Day 19 : What do you think of religion?

Day 20 : Your views on drugs and alcohol.

Day 21 : (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?

Day 22 : Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.

Day 23 : Something you wish you had done in your life.

Day 24 : Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)

Day 25 : The reason you believe you’re still alive today.

Day 26 : Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?

Day 27 : What’s the best thing going for you right now?

Day 28 : What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?

Day 29 : Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.

Day 30 : A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

Merry Christmas

A year ago, one of my brothers expressed surprise that I still celebrated Christmas. Without Jesus, he thought, there would be no point, no reason, as it were, for the season. I just wanted to point out, to friends, families, and everybody else...I do have a reason to celebrate the Christmas season. And that reason is you. You are the ones that give me hope and comfort, you are the ones in whose love I find peace. So, thank you.

Happy belated Thanksgiving!

Marcus (unfinished)

Her lungs burned. Her vision blurred. She could not keep this up much longer. Already her legs were refusing to keep running, her feet starting to stumble. Fear and adrenaline had kept her on her feet this long, but she was fast coming to the end of their assistance.

She tripped, stumbled, and unable to catch herself, fell to her knees. This was the end. It had only been a few steps behind her, and now she could feet breath on the back of her neck. Then, darkness.

...

Marcus caught the girl as she started to fall. He grunted as he swung her over his shoulder and started the trek back to his cave. His lair, the villagers called it, and he the beast the lurked within. Many times they had come, armed with pitchforks and torches, to drive him out. Their friends always found them the next day, unharmed, peacefully asleep in the sunshine. He was no master kelok, but he did know some small magics, more than enough to protect himself from a few angry villagers.

He shifted the girl to his other shoulder. How had she gotten free? It was hard enough figuring out what to do with these girls they kept staking out for him without being led on a merry chase through the forest for hours. His anger burned as the thought of the first girl they had chained to a stake in the little clearing outside the village. He had no use for girls, virgin or otherwise. He had left her there, assuming the villagers would come in the morning and be overjoyed at finding her alive.

They had come, certainly. But they reacted with anger instead of joy. They blamed the girl, saying she must not have been a virgin, that she had failed, that she had put their entire village in jeopardy. Then they... He shook his head vigorously. Suffice it to say that the girl died there and the villagers went back to the village bearing the brands of murderers and rapists. It had been one of the few times he had wished himself actually able to take human life. The brands he had set on them ensured them their punishment at the hands of their fellow men, at least. Such marks could only be set upon the guilty. But since then he had been careful to collect the virgin offerings left for him.

Marcus ducked through the opening to his cave, careful to avoid hitting both his head and the girl's on the ceiling or walls. It was small, and strewn with bones and other grisly trophies. It truly looked a beast's lair. Two strides took him across to the opposite wall, where he laid his hand on the wall and whispered "open."

For Better Things

I wrote this several months ago. I did not publish it because she did not want people to know that she was dating us. So I will post it now, a record of things that were.

For life's freedom now to start
For the fear of starting new
For the love within my heart
For what I hid yet always knew

For the breaking of love's chains
For heart's opening once more
For its joys as well as pains
For the wealth no longer poor

For the recklessness of joy
For the doors no longer locked
For heart though not a toy
For the hours that run unclocked

For a love not one but two
For a strength that runs threefold
For caresses old and new
For more arms to rock and hold

For refusing to look back
For rejoicing in our song
For a trust that never lacks
For a love that is not wrong

For all these I hold love fast
For all these I look past pain
For all these I leave the past
For all these I live again

Molithe: Sunstrider Isle

I awoke to unfamiliar surroundings, uncertain as to how I had gotten there. My pet dragonhawk, Dragon, nuzzled my face...and judging from the drool all over me, had been doing so for quite a while.

"Dragon! Stop that, boy!" I pushed him away as I sprung gracefully to my feet. I am a blood elf, after all. We do everything gracefully. I looked around more closely. This must be Sunstrider Isle! I had heard stories of the place of course, but I had never visited. Few did. A nearby Magister beckoned me closer.

"Molithe! Your training awaits you!" she stated firmly. "You see all those mana wyrms over there? They've broken free of our control and need to be dealt with. I need you to kill a few for me." Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the young priest next to me, tossing "For the glory of the Sin'dorei!" over her shoulder. "Death to our enemies," I replied absently, my eyes already on a mana wyrm nearby, and my mind on how to best perform what would be my first kill. I was a little nervous, but if ever I was to make something of myself in this world of warcraft, adventure, and danger, I had to start somewhere!

After killing six of the wyrms, I returned to the Magister, eager to claim my reward. She gave me a sweet new belt and told me to check the mailbox. After buckling my new belt on, I pulled a giant package out of the mailbox and opened it excitedly. Inside was a note signed "Good luck! Mom" and several pieces of high quality armor! This was even better than a new belt! This armor would last me forever if I took good care of it, just as it had lasted my mother and probably her mother before her. After buckling on this new armor as well, I looked around for something to do. Remembering the Magister had told me to visit the experienced Ranger Sallina inside, I ran inside eagerly. Sallina wanted me to gain more experience killing the different creatures around the Isle, then practice my skills on the training dummies she had set up outside. It seemed several different people now had tasks for me to perform...an older elf wanted me to gather some of his property he had left carelessly sitting all over, the Magister wanted me to kill some lynxes that had gone feral and reclaim their leather collars, and an arcanist wanted to teach me how to suck the magic out of the area immediately around me. That last one gave me the shivers. I suffered from magic addiction, as did all blood elves, but stealing it from a living creature, even one I was going to kill anyway, just made me sick. I resolved to use this ability sparingly.

I retrieved the older gentlemen's belongings while crying over killing the baby lynx cubs and their mothers all over the isle. Did we really have kill them, just because they were feral? It wasn't like they were hurting anybody. I did as I was asked, however, and gathered collars from all of them to return to the Magister. She praised me and sent me on to her apprentice a bit down the path. He too wanted me to kill things, which made me a bit sad. I'd gone quickly from being all excited about my first kill to being tired of killing, already. I suspected I would see quite a bit more before I was through, though! At least this guy wanted me to kill tenders, which are just animated sticks, basically. These tenders had slipped out of their makers' control and essentially started running in circles. They weren't really dangerous, but they were annoying. After killing several, I returned to the apprentice, who gave me my first really important job: executing a leader of the Wretched. I despised the Wretched with that burning hatred one only feels for that which they truly fear. I knew that if I didn't control my addiction to magic, I too would end up a slave to it. So I killed the guy. I almost felt like I was putting him out of his misery. What kind of life is it to be so totally controlled by something that you would kill even those dear to you for just a taste of mana? I brought his head back to the apprentice guy as proof that I had completed my task. Ugh. I tell you what, a few coppers are NOT enough for me to go carrying bloody heads around in my pack. At least the self-cleaning magic my mother put on the pack is holding up well. I hardly notice it is there, but come to think of it, that might be why random blood elves keep glancing at me hungrily. And here I thought it was my stunning good looks and stellar personality. Oh well, a girl can dream, right?

Having delivered the head to what's-his-name the apprentice, he sent me to an outrunner at the edge of the Isle for further instructions. I don't even know what the guy is going to do with a head. Especially a Wretched head. If there's anything uglier than a wretched I don't know what it is! Maybe Forsaken. They look somewhat similar. Anyway, the outrunner sent me in search of a second outrunner that was supposed to be on her way to Falconwing Square with a package but never made it. I found her body a short ways down the road. Life is so short and easily snuffed out. I grabbed the package and ran back to the first outrunner, but she just gestured for me to continue down the road to Falconwing Square myself. Fair enough! I was happy to leave Sunstrider Isle. It was probably all the loose mana floating around, but the place made me feel very unsettled. I would be glad to get to Falconwing and take a nice nap in the inn.

The Story of Molithe

Molithe is a word I recently came up with and became enamored with very quickly. I'm not really sure why, but for some reason the word appeals to me, especially as a name. So my current goal for this blog is to write out the story of Molithe the Hunter as if she were actually there, experiencing it for the first time. I plan to use minimal add-ons and avoid group content as much as possible. My goal for Molithe is to make her feel as if her story is one of the epic adventurer who grew in power until she saves the world, some day. So I've just started her story tonight, and I'm hoping to write a new chapter every few levels. Wish me luck and perseverance!

Molithe

Molithe. The name both terrified and attracted her. Molithe. Slayer of a thousand dreams. Yet she had seen a glimpse of something else in those shadowed eyes, something more than death or dreams.

She was probably just lying to herself. After all, people tried to get close to Molithe all the time. She had seen one such person at the market just last week, babbling by turns of death and demons and angels and light. Nobody was quite sure what to do with these broken-minded wretches. Once a vengeance-crazed mother had found one wandering in an open field beside her house. The mere whisper of Molithe was enough to send her into a frenzy and she bashed his head in with her household god. She awoke the next morning to find her village in flames and her neighbors slaughtered. They fished her body out of the river a week later. After that, Molithe's cast-off lovers were treated with care, if not respect.

Yet still they came, once or twice a month, from every corner of the world. With Molithe's name on their lips and dreams in their eyes, they trudged straight up the temple steps. The great golden gates would swing open to receive them, and them alone. Some had mates or children trying to drag them back, yet still they strode forward.

Molithe. She shivered. What was it that brought men and women of every race to the Temple of Dreams? What could draw them so strongly? And why were they always found mindless, weeks or months or even years later?

Nobody knew what went on in the presence of Molithe. Those who went willingly, not drawn by dreams, found the gates closed to them. If they managed to climb the wall, they were found later missing both eyes and tongue.

Except her. She had seen Molithe. She had waylaid a dreamer and convinced him to smuggle her through the gates in his pack. She was small and he had been a large barbarian from the North. It had been easy to convince him, but then, dreamers would agree to anything so long as it didn't keep them from Molithe.

So far as she knew she was the first mortal to see Molithe and still retain all her sense. She wondered if she would start going slowly mad, or perhaps if this growing obsession with Molithe was how it started for dreamers. She almost thought it would be worth losing her mind to see Molithe just once more, this time without the hood and veils, face to face with the Keeper of Dreams.

So it was that she found herself striding up the long staircase to the great golden gates of the Temple of Dreams. The people gathered to watch her go by, muttering the same words of condolence and regret they always bestowed on a dreamer. "I'm not a dreamer!" she wanted to yell at them. "I just want to see Molithe!" But she held her peace. To her surprise and slight dismay, the gates swung open at her approach. She hesitated, then strode boldly through them before falling to her knees in front of Molithe. As her eyes met the eyes of the Keeper of Dreams, she felt a sense of peace. This was where she was meant to be. This is what she had been dreaming of all her life.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

For Slappy And Haz

The sound of sage advice I hear
Wisdom of friends both far and near
"Forget the past, move on," they say
"Love you will find again someday."
Their words ring loud and true, yet still
My heart declines to follow my will
A hope misplaced still longs to gain
The love of those who caused me pain

Yet I cannot live within the past
Slave to love which did not last
I cannot stay in bondage to
A love that proved itself untrue
And if for this my heart a stone
Becomes, to continue on its own
Then so it must be, unstained
By love or hate or joy or pain

But one sweet day true love will make
The heart-stone crack, and finally break
And arms will hold, and lips will say
"Your love is here, and here will stay."
And though I never will forget
And love's first pain may pain me yet
What is past is forever gone
And love will paint a bright new dawn

Why Do I Not Bleed?

I think maybe I've figured out at least part of why, despite all desire and expectation, I have not started cutting again. Because I just thought about doing it, and immediately two thoughts came to mind. One, that cutting is too much work, and two, that I don't want to be that alone. The two are related in some ways. By "too much work" I don't mean that I'm too lazy to walk across the room and pick up a razor blade. That's the easy part of cutting. It's what comes afterward that is so difficult and so isolating. Because you have to monitor everything. It's pretty warm in this state, so I have to carefully consider placement, and then wardrobe, and if I inadvertently pick the wrong clothes, I spend the day worrying that people might see. And cutting makes for sudden mood swings as you go from depression to euphoria, so you want to make sure this isn't this obvious sequence of depression - closed door - happiness, which doesn't happen as much for me because I'm usually hiding the depression part anyway. And then there's the choices of who to tell (if anyone), who can you trust, who must you hide from. And if you do decide to tell someone, then you have to stop and weigh your motives. Are you telling them because you want sympathy? Attention? Help? And those you decide to hide from, you try to hide just the cutting...but then you have to hide the depression, too...and eventually you just start avoiding them altogether, which just makes you feel isolated. Especially since in general the friends you might be honest with are a very tiny number of people. Of course feeling isolated makes you want to cut more, which adds to the whole mess, which makes it more stressful, which makes you want to cut more, which isolates you more...get the idea?
But that's really only part of the reasons, I would say. I hardly know myself well enough to know them all. Another one is that I do have friends that I can talk to to ease the pain before I take that last bloody step. And for the most part, I do. Although I fear relying on them too much. I have this tendency to go from distrust to deep friendship rather quickly sometimes (although I'm picky about who with) and I think it overwhelms people. Being my friend is not easy. I know that. I'm trying to make it easier, but it is still difficult. I want to be loved, and in opening my heart to give and receive that love I think I tend to give out more of myself than people are prepared to handle. Anyway. Bit of a rabbit trail there.
I did try cutting recently. The stress was just too much for me to handle alone. And, you know, it was just as good as I remember. Better even. It gave me such a high that I had to stop much sooner than I expected. And for some bizarre reason it did not hurt at all, not even while it was healing. But I realized when I did it that this is not who I am anymore. Sure, I still want to cut, almost all the time. But I've come too far to return to being the cutter I once was.
And I don't want to be alone. I don't want to tense when someone gives me a hug for fear they might bump unhealed cuts. I don't want to be unable to be active or do things because a sleeve or shorts leg might ride up. Cutting saved my life once, or many times, but now I have outgrown it. Now it would hinder my life, not help it.
Life is too short to add fear on top of pain.

"Where has my heart gone?
Trapped in the eyes
Of a stranger...
I want to go back to
Believing in everything
And knowing nothing
At all"
~"Field of Innocence"

The worst thing is not to be speechless, nor is it to be unheard. The worst thing is to know that your words are heard...and dismissed.

Thoughts From Church

An omnipotent God who refuses to act is in all practicality no better than an impotent God who cannot act.
If God had not created hell nobody would ever go there.
Non Christians find fulfilment in those very things that Christians say they found unsatisfying. Perhaps it is not a fundamental of human nature that cannot find fulfilment in everyday life, but a fundamental of those natures that are drawn to the idea of a supernatural.
I hear so many people applauded in these churches because they left promising careers in the world to devote their time and energy to the small circle of people that is American fundamentalism. But if they truly wished to minister to people, an opera singer at the New York Metropolitan Opera can reach far, far more people than a traveling pair of Christian singers or even a pair of voice teachers at a Christian college. They did what made them happy, and threw God's will on it to make them look spiritual.
 I think perhaps the one thing that Christians simply cannot understand about me is that it is the supposed sovereignty of God that forever drives me from following him. If God existed and was sovereign, he would be no God I would want to serve.
 It is one of Christianity's biggest sins that it keeps its followers content in this life with promises of the next that it has never and cannot ever prove that it can deliver.
Visiting my home church is like watching the blind following the blind and shouting "hallelujah" and "amen" as they fall into the ditch.
 I used to get really caught up in the whole Covenant/dispensationalism argument. Now it just makes me shake my head and chuckle.

Music

I know the words to that song
Though the harmony's wrong
And the instruments all play out of key

Come to think of it too
The melody's not true
And the dance not what it used to be

One of those times when a few phrases start banging at your head demanding you make them into something.

Choices

The last time I stayed in this room was shortly after I made an offer that would change my life. I knew that then, of course, thought if I had been aware of exactly how my life would change I would have been more hesitant to make such an offer. But I did. That was, if I had to put a number on it, the first choice I made that contributed to this tragedy. Others made their own choices of course, but I do not bear responsibility for theirs, only mine. My next choice was to allow myself to fall in love. I do not regret this because I fell in love with a wonderful person - smart, beautiful, trustworthy, dependable, a person who loved me in spite of all my flaws, for I had not hidden them from her. And my husband and I both saw these things, and together we invited her into our hearts and our home. That was the third choice, and though it was shared it was my own choice. In many ways I do not regret it, even now. It was an unwise choice, yes. But I risked much in hopes of gaining much, and I thought, and still do think, that what we all stood to gain was more than worth the risk.
The fourth choice was less conscious than the first three, born of pain and confusion. In the wake of unexpected and unintended betrayal I allowed myself to withdraw. Without intending to I pushed my two Loves away from me. It was this choice, I think, that most of the tragedy rests with, this choice and the next. Because the next choice was the stupidest of all, the most idiotic choice I have ever made. Ignoring all I knew of myself and of them, I chose to leave ("but wait," you say, "you said you were kicked out!" Patience. I'm getting there). I talked of finding a lover who loved all of me. I never spoke of breaking up with my Loves because I did not intend to. But I spoke of moving out. I searched for apartments. I almost managed to get one. But then I stopped, and remembered who I am, and who I loved, and what was really important in life, and I realized the stupidity of what I had nearly done. And I chose again, this time to stay, and to rebuild whatever damage I had caused because of the last two choices.
There is much I could say at this point. I will sum it up this way: there was pain and anger and sorrow had by all, and it was too late. And so I made the final choice. I did not want to make it. I made it slowly, begrudgingly, against my will. I made it kicking and screaming and throwing things. I could have stayed where I was unwanted and unloved, where I had been asked to leave and told my presence caused only pain. My name was on the lease, I had just as much right to remain there in my home as they did. I could have stayed there, yes, causing people I did and still do love misery until they left or found a way to truly force me to leave. So in a sense you could say I was not kicked out, and that would be true. But though I left, I did not want to, and would still have been willing to work things out, so in a sense the opposite is true as well. Foolishly I would still be willing to work things out, because in spite of everything I still love them. But in the end, rather than perpetuating a situation that made all our lives nearly unbearable, I made the unwilling choice to leave.
These are my choices. I bear the joys and regrets, the pride and shame of them myself, for I made them all. In the same way, I do not and refuse to bear the shame or regret of your choices. You made them, not I, and you must bear their weight yourself.

Reality

I live in a reality where being honest is manipulation, where if I acknowledge I need change I am lying, if I change I am not sincere, and if I am content with being who I am I am selfish. Nothing I say is interpreted in a positive light, no matter what it is.

And you know what? I'm starting not to care. I should never have cared. I should have stopped caring at the very first inkling that love might be conditional. It doesn't matter your side of the story, it doesn't matter if you feel a victim, it matters not to me in the least. Because it is your choice to remove me from your life, and therefore your opinions ought have not one bit of power over me.

So if you think me selfish, go ahead. If you think sharing my heart with you and trusting you for years is manipulation, go ahead. If you think me not sincere or a liar, go ahead. I hope it makes you feel better.

I have been holding off on saying this because of the love I still held for you, but that love is fast becoming buried by reality. So I will say this: I hope your life is everything it ought to be, and I hope you live the life you have given me. But whatever life you do live, I am not responsible, I am not to blame. When you move past your honeymoon phase and discover each others' true selves I hope you still love each other, though I would not guarantee it. As you continue to feel overwhelmed by parenthood I hope you remember how you judged me for being the same. I hope you learn the truth about yourselves, and I hope that when you do, you will believe it.

It's weird. There is no pain. I have new red lines and yet...absolutely no pain. Everything else is the same as or better than I remember. I suppose then when people ask why I would willingly inflict physical pain on myself when I have enough emotional pain floating around to drown anybody, I can just say...it does not hurt. Then again, even if it did, it would not be nearly as much as anything else I am going through.

Let's see how this goes

I wanted my words to be audible, for once. Sorry it's like twenty minutes long. Just pop some popcorn, and maybe I'll get around to a transcript for those of you unable or unwilling to listen.

Love kept me from so many things. Now I have no reason not to do them.