PTSD

Relationships are tough enough as they are.  It's no mystery why most of them fail; without a considerable amount of determination and cooperation with each other, it can turn into a war zone.

When there is a large amount of history behind the relationship, things can get even more sticky.

I've often wondered if I have a smaller version of post-traumatic stress disorder.  My earliest memories of life are blurred images and sounds of yelling, screaming, crying, pushing, hitting, and fear.  So much fear.  Sometimes I remember glimpses of being happy, of my parents being happy, but it's much less rare than the horrible things I tried very hard to not remember.

The thing is, I've been haunted my whole life by that fear.  The gut-wrenching, deep-stomach-sinking fear of someone you love.  When my adopted father started to get vocally violent shortly before, all during, and for much afterwards the divorce with my mother, I found myself plugging my ears in the fetal position on my bed.

When I talked with Alex about her relationship life, I admitted to her that I never had a boyfriend during school because I avoided relationships with guys whether they liked me or not.  I've always been a hopeless romantic, but even though I was lonely, I was afraid I would end up pinned against the wall with a bruise on my face and children crying in the corner.  My entire life was spent swearing I would never, ever let myself fall into that hole or drag my little ones into it.

Rewind to over a year ago, and I'm in the kitchen of our small apartment, snatching a large knife off the counter to defend myself and my home from whoever the hell it was masquerading as Tristan (trust me, I can tell). In that moment, that flash of silver and blur of arms, I saw a little girl who looked a lot like me standing in the doorway.  I knew she was just part of my mind, but something chilled me and drove me to fight that much harder for survival.

But my mother taught me well.  I grew up to be a fighter, not a runner.  I fought back in the best way I could without causing damage, which was reciprocation.  And Jake had taught me how to disarm opponents, so I didn't have to fear weapons no matter how they were weilded.  Learning to observe behavior in others served my own sanity well, since I was able to clearly see that Tristan wasn't even aware of what was going on.  So when I finally found myself pinned against the wall with hands around my throat, I silently pleaded for the man I loved to resurface and save me before one of us passed out or died (yes, I had my own hands around his throat and squeezing).

The hardest part about moving forward is forgetting the past.  Sure, I've forgiven easily enough.  I love Tristan like no other, and forgiving him was much easier than I thought it would be.  Forgetting, well, that's an entirely different story.  Only an absolute idiot with a death wish forgets what went wrong the first, second, third, fourth and iffy-fifth time around.

This past month has been epic in shoving aside and burying what I remember oh so clearly.  Things don't bother me like they used to, and last night I had a dream in which I not only confronted the root of my fear, I shot it 3 times in the chest with a bow and quiver of arrows.  In the past, if something went wrong, the horrible fear would surface and I'd end up in a seizure of sobbing and hyperventilating.  Now, so much less goes wrong to begin with and the little things, while in principle and logic bother me, don't create chest constrictions or lung compressions.  I consider that progress.

So what do I do when new information surfaces?  Like how, according to an anonymous source (I gave my word, no backlash, so we're leaving this at that), I was continuously the subject of jokes and taunts for the last year between Tristan and our mutual friends.  My stomach sank as I read this, and I instinctively wanted to confront Tristan about the validity of the information.  I'm no idiot, and I'm not about to be made a fool yet again by the "same" dude over and over and over and over again.

However, I am no idiot.  I wasn't an analyst for the Unit because I'm easy to look at.  After a moment of consideration I realized how stupid it would be to confront the man I love about something someone with emotional issues (possibly sprinkled with jealousy) said.  Not only that, but Tristan and I had just spoken earlier tonight about trust, boundaries and where we stand as a couple.

People have continuously asked me if I am sure things are different this time.  Especially, as I described earlier, things haven't been picture perfect in the past.

How do I describe the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he talks with me?  Even tonight, when we discussed the propriety (or lack of) hanging out solo with friends of the opposite gender and I was totally botching my attempts to NOT sound bitchy, Tristan was still wonderful.  I'd dreaded even having the conversation because I remembered the many times we've had the same topic before, and it never ended well.  To my very big surprise, not only was he calm and collected through our talk, we actually came to a compromise.  A real, honest-to-goodness compromise.

While it's difficult to forget, love makes it much easier to let things go.

In Color

Lately I've noticed my color preference has concentrated more on purple and less on green.  When I took a moment to wonder how that happened after almost 10 solid years of loving green, I remembered the first home Tristan and I shared.  The top floor of a old duplex/former meth lab.

Note to new couples:  There are three tests to discerning if your relationship is true:  1) Assembling, decorating and positioning the Christmas tree  2)Taking a road trip across America with no GPS, no radio, no air conditioning, and no hotel reservations  3) Painting your residence.

The first test we passed with flying colors.  Tristan is very artistic and I was determined to prove to my mother that I can be calm and NOT throw artificial tree branches at my significant other, so I let him steer the assemblage and decorating.  The second trip was a huge bonding experience for us, so much that even though we began the journey as "just friends" since we broke up a week before departure, we were back together halfway through the trip.  And the third test is why I no longer like green so much.

We could be having a fantastic day together, but once we entered the home improvement store parking lot, we were at each other's throats.  Then once we walked to the sliding doors, Tristan would stick his hand out by his side and grumble, "Hold this."  Hand in hand, we'd exchange smiles and embark on an epic journey to find the right shades of paint and window treatments.  One lady, whose name I think was Lucy, often became a sort of therapist as we bickered over curtains and smacked each other with paint stirrers.  The biggest debate was what colors we would paint our apartment.

Tristan loves blue.  I loved green.  We both agreed to paint the foyer a warm beige with dark cherry-wood brown on the border, but when it came to the living room and bedroom we were at a standstill.  I HAD to have green.  He needed a room with blue.  In the end, he was able to convince me with an article about colors and moods that a light blue with a dark blue accent wall was perfect to create a relaxing atmosphere in our bedroom.  Once I conceded, he agreed to help me paint the living room a medium green with an army-green accent wall.  Throughout the entire apartment, the wood borders were the same shade of brown.

In retrospect, I should have seen the living room painting adventure as a great sign of love from Tristan.  Not only did he let me choose the shades of green for the largest room in our home, he did most of the painting since the archway was much taller than I am.  The day he finally finished painting that archway, he slipped up behind me in the kitchen and pulled me close in the warmest hug he'd ever given me at that time.  "Well hi!" I giggled and snuggled closer to him.  "What's this for?"

"I just feel very accomplished," he answered with a smile and a kiss on my cheek.

Looking back, I think the reason why I never, ever complained to anyone about how much I hated that stupid green room was because of that one moment we shared.  Because it only took a week before I loathed having an entirely green room that didn't match the warmth of the foyer.  We would sit on the loveseat and recount our work days, or watch movies, or sit on the large windowsill to eat corn chowder, and all I could think about was how much I wished we didn't paint the living room green.  And I knew it was my own stupid fault for insisting so strongly on having green walls, and I hated that my favorite room was the calming blue bedroom brainchild of Tristan's creative genius that I so enthusiastically tried to prevent from happening.

So whenever I wonder what happened to my love for all things green hued, I remember that living room.  Which makes me remember the whole apartment and everything that happened in it, and despite the rough times that did occur, what I remember the best are all the good times.  Tristan and I ripping off wood planks from a beautiful picture window, or huddling in the middle of the carpeted kitchen with candles and wine glasses filled with heart-shaped ice cubes and soda because we had no money for food or decent tableware.    For most of our first month there, which happened to be January, the heater didn't work and we had no sheets for the bed.  It was with scraped-together money that we bought flannel sheets on sale at my old workplace.  Every morning Tristan would wake up a few hours before dawn to go to his early shift, and every morning he would kiss me right before he left.

"I realized that I was happiest when you were in my life.  More."  When Tristan told me that a few weeks ago, that eventful afternoon in which everything I'd given up on was suddenly handed to me on a silver platter, I couldn't help but wonder if that was just another easy line fed to appease me.  But with all these memories, I realize now that he was 100% right.  I was happiest when we were together, and "together" as in side-by-side, experiencing life and exploring the world.

Now we have that again.  And I'm never, ever, ever painting a single wall green again.

Sentimentals

I'm falling behind in my schoolwork, rent, life itself, and despite having every reason to be thrilled beyond belief, I can't escape this awful feeling of guilt and dread.

Tristan kept asking me if I've told Luke yet that we're together.  I knew Luke was busy with his work, which consists a LOT of the things we used to do, so I didn't want to bother him in the midst of the current chaos to inform him of the relational changes.  Deep down I prayed he would just never, ever contact me again so I wouldn't have to go through the awful process that is breaking a person's heart.

"I miss you."

At this text I banged my head against my work locker.  Of course he had to text me.  After a month of silence despite my inquiries, Luke just HAD to text me and with what?  A sentimental note.  I couldn't stop the hissed cursed and my new friend/coworker Niva asked me what was wrong.  When I explained to her my issue, she just gave me a smile and shook her head.  This was my problem to deal with.

So...I ripped it off quick like a bandage and told him.  I have a boyfriend.  What followed was a very, very tense silence and whenever he did respond to my texts, it was the short quips that indicate he is NOT happy at all.  What was I supposed to say?  I honestly thought he'd moved on, found some tail to bang on his downtime and forgot about me, and I totally understood.  I thought he'd be happy for me since every time we talked about it, he encouraged me to just "go do it".  Apparently I was wrong, or he was wrong, or whatever.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy with Tristan and this needed to be done.  So then why do I feel horrible?  Why am I crying?  To be perfectly honest... I'm going to miss the sweet little texts.  And the "hey this song reminded me of you" links I'd get when we chatted.

I love Tristan, and he is a wonderful man and the one for me...he's just not really the warm-mushy type.  I love him exactly as he is: strong, stubborn, resilient, passionate in his beliefs and adventurous in life.  He is much more physically affectionate than he used to be, which is AMAZING and just leaps and bounds in improvement.  And I will not ask him to "change" or do anything out of his nature, especially since that used to be a very bad habit of mine and I'm making as much of an effort as he is to making things work this time.

I just wonder, and often...does he think about me?  Like, when he's at work or driving in the car, does he hear a song that reminds him of me?   In the past he would surprise me with trinkets or just thoughtful gestures, like one night when I came home from an especially bad day at work to find our small apartment lit by candles and a note in the foyer.  He had set up a scavenger hunt written completely in Goran (to sharpen my linguistics, of course) that led me around the softly lit area until I reached the end: a warm meal of sesame chicken and rice on a brand-new bamboo set with a wrapped box on the side.  Inside the box was a small bag of chocolates and a large flower pendant made by one of my favorite designers.

Even when we swore we would never, ever be together again, I still wore that pendant.  I could never figure out why.  Especially when I knew we would be hanging out, or even if there was a chance we'd run into each other, I would pick an outfit to wear just to compliment that pendant.  Oftentimes I would think about the morning he left for work at 5am only to return half an hour later with breakfast and the day off.  Or the day I was almost tied up and stuffed in the attic, how he rushed home and searched for me then held me in his arms when we established he was the good guy.  I remember sitting on the couch with him, his fingers stroking a strand of hair behind my ear as he told me we didn't have to worry about "uninvited visitors" anymore.

Perhaps it has just been difficult for me to believe that things are finally the way they should be.  Or that I can actually allow myself to be happy again.  I keep hearing the thousand reasons why this is such a bad idea, like "he's left you before, he'll leave you again", "you're not ready", "make sure he wants you for the right reasons".  And I know they have grounds for disapproval.  I have given my own friends the same "advice".

Is it so bad to want to be happy with the one person you've always known you love?

Epic

6am and I couldn't sleep.

After spending the day with our families, we were exhausted.  Not to mention our own errands and breaks we took between visits... by 9pm Tristan was out cold in my bed and I was minutes from joining him.  But I forgot one little, very important detail: he needs 12 hours to function or anything less makes him walk around like a zombie, while at 8 hours exactly I wake up and can't go back to sleep without spending some energy.  So when we both went to bed at 9pm, he would be fresh and ready at 9am while I'd be awake for three hours beforehand, wondering what the heck do I do in the dark morning.

I rolled out of bed to use the bathroom, then slid back in with the idea that I'd just blog for a while until I would tire again.  But the second I slid under the covers, Tristan rolled over in his sleep, slipped an arm around me and lay his head on my shoulder.  He was warm, comfy, and in minutes I was asleep again.

Tristan once said that our story would either be one of the greatest love stories of all time, or the greatest tragedy.  For almost two years I was thinking it was a tragedy, but now...what can I say?

When I was 13 I lived in an apartment with my mother and sister, a place we had found in a hurry after fleeing my adopted father.  It was just in the county seat, and a nice place, but it was also a constant reminder that the things I had shoved away in my mind from when I was only 2 were happening again.  The running, the hiding, and the constant yelling.  I hated the yelling.  And in this particular night, Mom was on the phone yelling at her soon-to-be-ex-husband over something, crying, begging for peace...and I was in my room by the window, trying to block it all out.  I didn't want to hear it happening all over again.  Most of all, I didn't want to go through it myself, especially if I were to have children.  So I slid to my knees and begged God to spare me of the same fate, to be specific and force me to be only with the one man He chose for me.  I cried, begged, pleaded for God to just let me have this one thing in life, a love story greater than any other, something for the ages, someone handpicked for me so I wouldn't go through the heartache that filled the world around me.

I had no idea that He already knew I would ask for that.  I didn't know that when I was only 5 a boy from the stars was hidden on this planet by his father to keep him safe.  When I was growing up I thought my father was a con artist living in California; even my mother had no clue that he was actually one of the top agents in a ghost division of Special Ops, and a trainer for a group of boys that included the one from the stars.  The boy grew up to love and admire his trainer like a father, never knowing the other man who befriended him and kept a close eye on him was his real father.  When my father was framed, the boy who was becoming a man wanted revenge and chose me to be the target.  When he was exiled, his own father declined to accompany him and eventually became a friend of mine, someone I looked to for help and guidance.  Then one day the boy who was now a man came home and met me, thinking he'd finally get the chance to finish what he started.

Tristan said it was something in my face.  All the anger and hatred he had towards me for just being my father's daughter dissolved into something that worried him.  It took two years of dancing on the edge of sanity, of reconciling the events of our lives that inexplicably bound us together whether we liked it or not, to come to an acceptance that no matter how much we struggled, God had something planned for us that has been in the works since before we were born.

All these things floated in my mind as I lay there in bed, my hand caressing Tristan's arm where it wrapped around my waist.  Only God could make such an incredible story, an epic saga of an exiled prince and a half-human seer bound together by something greater than we can truly understand.

New Beginnings

We sat on the couch, drinking the epic cranberry Sierra Mist that (sadly) only comes out for the holiday season, just staring at the blank television and talking.  I was trying to ignore the if-he-was-normal-these-would-be-signals that Tristan had been giving all week, and chastising myself for even entertaining the thought that maybe, possibly, there was more to it than weirdness.

He was currently telling me about how he was unhappy in the gay scene, how it seemed to all be about just sex, etc.  I know he said more on the subject but it's a blurred memory due to what he said next: "So that's why I want to give us another chance."

To prevent myself from coughing Sierra Mist out of my nose, I took a deep gulp and swallowed hard, then turned to Tristan with a calm smile.  "I'm sorry, what?"

Tristan laughed softly and smiled.  "I want to give us another chance."

Somewhere inside me I rebelled.  I'm no idiot; last time was hell and a half just trying to ride my own emotions alongside his "episodes", not to mention the barrage of verbal and emotional abuse on both our parts.  "Keep talking."

He explained that he'd spoken with his mom about his unhappiness, and she told him to think about when he was happier and see what's different.  "That's when I realized....when I was happiest, you were in my life.  More."

"Awwww!" I leaned back into the couch, the ice around my heart melting already.  Dammit.  "I hate you.  I'm supposed to say no, but after that..."  I sighed.  "Sure, why not."

I didn't expect much.  I mean, I knew what to expect.  Hanging out, pecks here and there, hugs when needed, but otherwise we'd spend time talking about hypotheticals that would never happen.  Just like now, where we would return to staring at the wall while I stammered my way through an awkward conversation-

He gently grabbed my chin, turned my face back to him and kissed me.  I mean, kissed me.

For a moment I actually thought and pulled back enough to see if this was really, truly happening.  Tristan grinned and said, "I've been wanting to do that all night."

Okay.  That was new.

24 hours later hypotheticals were being erased by reality and my expectations for the same old, same old were thrown out the window.

The Need

It is becoming increasingly apparent I need to find my mate.  This deep hunger, this ache, this intolerable need for something I can't even begin to describe.... I don't know how much longer I can stand it.  This, or the fear and terrible sadness that I will never find my mate, or no man will ever want me that way.  Not to mention the nagging question of why it hasn't already happened.

I'm a freak, and I know it.  Tristan says maybe a normal guy is what I need, someone who doesn't have any clue as to our actual existence or abilities, someone who I can just be myself with.  To that I highly disagree, because how in the world would I explain the flickering lights when I'm upset, or how some things might just....move....on their own...when I'm not paying attention?  Or how I can listen in on mental processes, or have dreams about things yet to come?

Oh, and let's not forget the genetics.  My children will be just as special.  And soon I'd have to explain why they hardly ever get sick, or how when they do it lasts for maybe 24 hours.  How the healing process is much quicker than normal, and oh wow let's not even begin to describe the hormonal changes that are magnified versions of your average teenager!  The nightmares they will have won't always be just nightmares, and I do worry that like me and my sister, they will see the things that go bump in the night and I know I will not be able to lie to them.  But, then again, that is why we have God, and not just God, but Christ.  My mother taught me those skills, and I will teach them to my sons and daughters as well.

Like I told Tristan, I don't know if I have the heart in me to put so much onto the shoulders of an innocent, unwitting man.  My perfect mate would be one who is masculine, dominant, knows what he wants and gets it through hard work, and yet melts at my touch and cherishes his family just a few notches below his love for God.  Oh, and he would be just like me, powerful but practically unknowing of its genetic origins.  He would protect me and our children with every breath he has, yet recognize and respect that I can kick ass just as good as any man.

Tristan, Alex and I went and saw Paranormal Activity 3 tonight.  I called it on what was causing the whole thing 10 minutes before it was actually revealed.  Tristan high-fived me for being right, and Alex seemed a little curious.  I just explained the truth: I was trained to deal with this sort of thing.  When some older lady has exotic beads hanging from her neck, looks like she once protested at Berkeley and dresses her granddaughter up in a bridal outfit from the Victorian ages....not to mention has freaky-ass furnishings and decorations from sooooooooooo many pagan tribes..... it just all screamed "WITCH!!!!!"  And I know that the film was made to freak people out, and I did spend most of it plugging my ears and half-covering my eyes expecting the worst, the most gruesome....but when stuff did happen, I couldn't help but think, oh, that's it?  THAT'S what scares people?  Welcome to a day in my life, folks.  This is textbook crap.

When an invisible demon growls, I growl right back and slam it into the next dimension.  When things go bump and clang in the kitchen, I tell it off and it stops.  When I do feel afraid because I am alone, I turn on worship music and sing to God in the face of whatever it is trying to instill terror in me.  This was what I was raised, was trained to do.  Sunday School taught me Bible basics; my mother taught me how to use it all in spiritual warfare.  I learned the signs of the occult, how to feel for malice, how to sense the poison in the air, how to see the unseen.  I learned how to stand firm in the face of terrible evil and use my identity as a daughter of God as a weapon.

Some poor schmuck from a shared college class is NOT going to be prepared for that kind of life.  And I think, sometimes, my agony in losing Jake was due to the fact that he knew what I knew, he stood beside me and fought with me against an entire legion of demons.  He was grounded firm in his identity even though he assumed someone else's.  Not once did he ever question my visions or my dreams; he always encouraged them.  Jake helped me translate my spiritual skills into physical combat skills.  Sometimes I even dare to think he might have known what I was long before I even heard of Tristan's people.

Is there a man out there who can meet the challenge?  Anyone who has the passion, the hunger, the courage and the faith?  It seems like I'm asking for so much, but all I'm asking for is my husband.

Whoever he is.

Hunger Games

My mother never taught me about our abilities.  In retrospect I completely understand why; it was hard enough for her to understand what she was or why she was without adding the idea of passing it on to her children.  After trying to reconcile her abilities with the occult (as a teen) and learning the absolute danger in that, she turned to the Church for answers.  They told her it was all demonic, evil, and must be avoided.  And in normal circumstances, that is 100% accurate.

But we were born like this.  God made us this way.  Now that we are all coming to this understanding, Mom has promised to help me through the changes and shifts in my development as I grow older.  A part of me wryly thinks this would have been great during the terrible bloodlust as a preteen, or the onslaught of visions during high school, or especially when I was bedridden for two weeks in college over a non-existent virus the medical staff couldn't explain.  But again, I remember that all that happened before any of us had a clue as to how not-quite-human we are, and I am deeply grateful for her help now.

I turned to Alex for help as a woman, as a virgin like me, as just someone I could confide in.  We were out for drinks at the restaurant Tristan works at (yes, he was in the kitchen that night grumbling at our late-coming and being the last two holding everyone there while we munched on appetizers).  Being a certain part of the lunar cycle, I felt the hunger gnawing inside me for something very, very different from food.  And while people have encouraged me to just feed it already, I know that I can't.

So I told Alex why.  "I haven't told Tristan, and he can't know this, okay?"  I know that in one way or another, I stressed to her the importance of him not knowing the widely circulating rumor about the truth of my virginity.  I even described why I didn't want him or any man to know.

The very next day, sitting in a fancy restaurant with Tristan....

'So, Alex told me you have a theory about your virginity."

Out of all the emotions I could have, and should have felt at that moment, all that appeared was a very deep disappointment in someone I regarded as a friend.  Then betrayal, followed by a determination that I won't fall into the trap that is trusting her.  Of course she would tell him.  Alex and every other female human would tell him the secrets to nuclear war codes just to be in the same room as him.  I don't say this out of spite, just as a simple fact.  No matter how much she or anyone protests to the contrary, they're all enamored with the prince and will fight to the death for his favor.  (I know I'm going to get backlash for this, so I challenge everyone who wants to protest to provide evidence of this not being true.  Good luck.)

The reason why I didn't want Tristan to know was reiterated to me by the gleam in his eye as we discussed it over appetizers.  I know him to be a good, honorable man even despite past behavior and so I'm not worried about him raping me by any means, but.... He's still human in so many ways.  Within him, however deeply buried, lies a hunger for power.  It's the same with Luke, only Luke is much more demanding and selfish in that department.  Who knows if Jake ever heard about my "condition".

The hunger that burns within me grows more intense with every monthly cycle and at this point the only thing preventing me from just sating it is my relationship with God.  Even amid the terrible cravings I manage to cry out to Him, to beg for help to get through.  If I lose my virginity to a Second Human, the gift of my power is lost forever.  If I lose my virginity to one of my own kind, or Tristan's kind (yes, by the way, through extensive research we've determined we are separate but equally superhuman races), whoever takes it will receive the gift, the surge of power, the thing we have yet to find a name for.  Even I don't know exactly what it is, only that it's extremely powerful and bottled up inside me just waiting to be released.

According to Luke, they've been discussing it long before I knew about it.  Mom confirmed my suspicions when I asked her about her own experience with my father; she told me it was a main reason why she prayed I would wait until marriage, so then the right man would be by my side to help me with the aftermath.  It doesn't just affect him, it will make me even stronger in my own abilities.  I need my true mate in order to successfully endure the changes.

All this I confided with Alex in the hopes that, being my friend, she would just be an understanding ear and maybe have some good advice.  But what does she do?  She freaking tells Tristan.  And when I tried to lightly let her know I was ticked over the betrayal, she acted like she didn't give a flying f*** about how I feel.  Honestly, I shouldn't be so surprised.  After listening to her stories of her escapades with other women's boyfriends, best friends, or basically guys she should have just left alone, I should have taken the hint that she really doesn't care about anyone but herself.  Because if she did care, she would never have done any of this. Again, I challenge anyone to give me proof of otherwise and NOT with Tristan.

It's all enough to make me want to break down into a nervous wreck.  But I can't, and I won't.  I'm staving off the deep, burning hunger for carnal pleasure just like I'm staving off the hunger for food (within reason, I mean come on, I still need to live).  The last thing I want is a roll in the sheets with some guy who just wants my power and/or babies.  The man who gets the gift will be the one who not only loves me but proves that he does.

But I do need to sleep.  That, my dear readers, is not something anyone should avoid.

Betrayal

"I have never been so pissed at you as I am right now."

"Sure you have."

"Okay, maybe."  I thought a moment, trying to recall a time where I wanted to effing kill him.  "When you dumped me."

"See?"  Tristan grinned at me as we pulled into my driveway.

Of course I'll never tell him that once he left I had to fight the tears back.  Why would he give me so much hell about "talking too much" when he went and told his therapist he's the Goran prince?  And now not only does the therapist think I'm an enabler for believing him, the very same therapist went and told Tristan's parents about his delusions.  So now they have even more issues with me on top of thinking I'm the one who started all this.

It's so.  Not.  Fair.  My family has suffered from the moment my parents were born, long before Tristan was even a gleam in his birth father's eye, and all because of our blood line.  I don't just go around believing every shmuck who says he's an intergalactic prince!  Every day I wonder if it all is just a delusion, but then I remember being a terrified child watching some man who looked like, but wasn't, my father try to beat my mother into a bloody pulp.  I remember my grandparents educating me on grace and poise and everything a royal should know.  I remember feeling alone in a group of friends, outcast in my school even though I was well-liked, because every time I showed even the slightest indication of being "different" people were terrified of me.

Maybe it shouldn't affect me as much as it is, but I am just so....hurt.  Tristan once told me that me talking about him when he isn't around feels like being stabbed in the back to him.  Yet somehow, this feels like the ultimate betrayal.  To throw away every moment of pain and suffering I and my family have endured for 46 years as a delusion?  And to not just do that, but to make people I once loved and trusted like my own family think I'm a manipulative, enabling whore?  (Oh, yeah, his adoptive family has been convinced we've been having sex since high school even though we're both virgins.)

If Tristan doesn't want to accept the truth, assume the role and responsibilities of being a prince of the oldest civilization in human history, fine.  But he's not the only royal on this planet and someone has to stand up for our people.

The Earth Is Round

We have come to the conclusion that explaining to our modern world that human extraterrestrials so very do exist, will be like explaining to the Dark Ages that the world is round.

I tried gauging the thought on this topic at the local MUFON meeting yesterday, and left with great frustration in regards to the responses.  According to these amazingly brilliant minds who I have great respect for, the ONLY way for human extraterrestrials to exist is if some malignant or benign alien spiritual entity possesses the body of a human from Earth.  Or the species designs a sort of biological avatar they then place on Earth.

But humans being from somewhere other than Earth?  Heaven forbid!

*Bangs head on table*

Of God and Fluff

I realized my problem.

Approximately two years ago I begged God to just let me be human.  I'd lived my entire life living, breathing, emanating His every word, every will (okay, a good chunk of it, at least I tried to be obedient....).  At times people said I literally glowed.  I was zealous, adamant, stubborn, passionate.  I didn't just talk Christian, I WAS Christian.

But the thing is, I felt so isolated.  So....weird.  I read the Bible when I was bored, and not the "awwww look at all the sheep cute little David is watching in the barren desert we assume all of the Holy Land is" parts of the Bible.  I read EVERYTHING.  Lot getting drunk and sleeping with his daughters after the annihilation of Sodom and Gomorrah....Jehu's wicked-awesome aim with his bow just plowing through army after army killing evil kings....Jezebel getting shoved from a tower and falling to her death only to be trampled so thoroughly her blood spattered the walls and dogs ate her in a matter of hours.....you know, the good stuff.  The Bible that recorded ALL of history and not just the short stories that seem to make everyone God has ever spoken to, perfect.  And in this I was isolated from my peers in Sunday School for being a know-it-all, Catholic schoolmates called me "holy", and when I reached the lovely teen years it took a while to dawn on me just how much people expected out of me.  The good one.  The "holy" one.  She-who-would-not-sleep-around.

College time came and I was surrounded by people worse off than me.  I mean, it's one thing to be a Christian.  It's a major problem when you're a Christian doing nothing but disputing scholarly texts, going on expensive 2-week mission trips and generally assuming you're just this much better than the other 7 billion on the planet because "I have the Light of Christ in me and they don't".

About a week before I left college to pursue my endeavors to be a normal human, I sat up in a class discussion, my chest contracted and breath just this short of heaving.  I was so....so....frustrated with the absolutely ridiculous notions I was hearing.  We only know God through writings?  Who wrote what about where?  Finally, I had to say what no one was even thinking, save for maybe the girl on the other side of the class who looked as worried and concerned as I felt.

"When you're staring demons in the eye, and I don't mean metaphorically," I began, speaking slowly so I would speak instead of scream what I needed to say, "what you know doesn't matter.  When you are face-to-face in the most literal, tangible sense with a group of actual demons who want nothing more than to devour your very being, it doesn't matter WHICH author you agree with!  They don't want to know who you've been reading.  They couldn't give a flying flip about which church you go to, how much you tithe, how much communion wine you drank at the last service....what matters is your IDENTITY.  Who are you?  If you know God, actually know Him personally and have a great relationship with Him on a one-on-one basis, nothing can touch you.  THAT'S what matters!"

Our professor was smiling.  My fellow classmates starting a rebuttal about how we get to know God through texts, and I slid down in my seat.  Oh.  My.  Freaking.  Goshen.  "If you want to get to know God, then just ask Him!  It's not rocket science!  You don't know someone by reading about them, you know them by talking with them and LISTENING." I shut up after that, since any following words would have been akin to that of St. Stephen who, as we all recall in Catholic school and any church that reads that passage before sermon, was stoned to death for calling the religious leaders "stiff-necked hypocrites" (modern-day translation: stubborn, stupid assholes).  That same professor was the only teacher I spoke to of my official exit, and he understood my reasons.  I think, in the silence, was the understanding of where I stood amongst "the throng" of Wheatonites.

Fast-forward 2 years, and one giant messy hell, later....

Me:  Hey, God....I know it's been a while....we haven't talked a lot....because, um...I'm dumb...and stuff....so, ah, would it be possible to get a little help with all this?  Because I'm really stuck, frustrated, and have NO way out.

God:  Are you done "being human" yet?  Or am I still on the side-lines?

Me:  Touche.....Yeah, I'm kind of sick of being human.  I miss the way things were with us.  You know, the whole 24/7 awesomeness.

God:  Great!  So you know what you have to do.

Me: *stares at my vices and groans*  But it's sooooo haaaarrrrddddd.......

God:  Yes it is.  And you know I am always here to help you, but you've got to put in the effort.  I'm not your magic genie.  I'm God.  I'm your Father.

Me: *sighs*  I dunno.....

God:  Okay, well when you do decide to return to Me, the door is always open.

What exactly do I have to do to return to better-than-just-human-status?  Reverse everything.  Meaning, resist the pull.  There are things that seem great at the moment in which I want them, but literally feel worse than a stomachache afterwards.  It's like detoxing from drugs.  Baby steps, and nothing gets accomplished unless you put in the effort.

Going to church...well, that's where this blog entry comes in.  Worship used to be a time to vent out the burdens in me, a sort of ebb and flow of "energy"....out with the bad, in with the good.  Now all I hear from the "stage" is "listen to me, I sing so pretty, fluffy fluffy blah blah blah".  Before, and after, services, it's all Christianese: "washed by the blood,"  "God has restored me from that car wreck, praise Jesus," "amen, mmhhmmm," "he/she has an evil spirit clutching to him/her,"  "I'll pray for you, brother/sister"......

GIVE.

ME.

A.

BREAK.

Whatever happened to reality?  I suddenly understand some of my late uncle's cynicism ( he was a soldier in Vietnam).  "How are you doing?"  "How am I doing? Well, let me tell you.  Life effing sucks."

"Aw, honey, I'll pray for you."  That's great.  Thank you.  Because we all know very well that 90% of "pray for yous" result in complete loss of memory over the subject.  In the rare case that someone actually follows through with the prayer, good things do happen!

The hardest part about returning to church is all the nasty little things I remember about nearly everyone in leadership.  Not that I ever wanted to know.  But they expected me to be a "true leader", and with leadership comes a good amount of gossip, guilt and confrontations.  It's difficult to sit still and listen to someone fluff about how God is good, everything is peachy, look at the colorful powerpoint slides with special effects.... when I so clearly remember the things they did.  How this leader abandoned and threw out students who needed God more than they needed Vicadin....how this other leader broke every promise he ever made....how she never smiles and only bitches, then sings about love and community like she's the star of the show that's SUPPOSED to be church....

Mom says church can always use one more hypocrite.  True, true.  But my biggest concern....where is God in all this?

God is not fluffy.  God is not the church bulletin, nor is he the color-by-number we give our kids (I once colored a page in Sunday School that said Jesus definitely rode dinosaurs in the ancient days.  No lie.  15 years later, a good friend from college found that same coloring page and posted it on Facebook!)

God is....He is power, might, virtue, strength, truth, love, forgiveness, mercy, wisdom, unchanging, unceasing, unending in His love for a species that continues to shove Him away.  When He works through you, oh man do you feel it!  Jesus isn't some lovey-dovey nice guy speaking on behalf of God.  He is God as a human, as one of us.  He didn't just walk the walk in everyday life as an average joe, He was flogged, beaten, whipped, stripped, falsely accused, spit on, kicked, punched, ridiculed, abused, and STILL lifted the instrument of His own extremely human death that weighed nearly 200 pounds and carried it through an entire city only to be nailed to it and die of an exploding heart (if not asphyxiation, hypothermia, or blood loss).  Then three days after being sealed in a no-returns-possible cave, He walked around smiling like He totally hadn't just died.  Very alive, very real, very true.

Not fluffy.

Destiny

After much careful consideration, I realized that stopping this blog because some people just loooovvvveeee drama is bad journalism.

I haven't spoken with, or seen, Tristan in quite a long while.  I turn 22 this coming Sunday, and in old times a birthday meant movie, flowers, good dinner, maybe some insane idea to go running through the woods... but times change, as do people.  Obviously the Tristan Keller who I once knew is not currently the Tristan Keller who deems it necessary to avoid me, per his therapist's advice (according to him).  Just another change in the winds.

Man, have I changed.  Physically, I mean, with the added benefit of some wisdom and insight that comes with aging (blech).  One day I woke up and decided, I'm going to lose weight.  I found a website that somehow just miraculously inspired me to actually do it, and 3 weeks later I'm minus 16 lbs!  I actually ran 3 miles yesterday, all at once, which impressed my cut-like-marble friend Luke.  He hates running, says he's too lazy and just swims, and I hate running even more.  So the fact that I outdid him in that department only boosted my mood even more!

I remember the visions people had about my destiny.  Tristan has mentioned "the seers", "oracles", or whatever the group of people who have visions that help the Organization before, and my own foresight has been measured and compared to theirs.  But they aren't every single person who has the ability.  Be it God's Will or be it coincidence, most if not all of my friends in high school were seers in one way or another.  And all of them had at least one dream/vision about my future, always the same event, always the same description and outcome, just different symbols per the individual's understanding.

Continuing on this path of physical improvement, especially to the goal I've had for years, means I'm ever nearer to destiny.  They all saw me slimmer, healthier, about 22 years old....  I know there's a chinese restaurant involved, some bitch who thinks she has a right to try to prevent it all from happening, and all in all just a fantastic ending to my lifelong wait.

I'm 22 on Sunday.  I'm dropping weight like crazy.  My own visions, and their repeated emphasis on timelines, are coming to pass.

Almost.  Almost there.

Until Further Notice

Due to certain secretive readers who have recently made themselves known, I will not be writing for a long while.

It seems that no one can be trusted.  In one person's anger, he tried to get his ex-boyfriend in trouble, which led to both pointing fingers at me, which led to an interrogation by Tristan who doesn't believe I had nothing to do with it.  Well, I did, in that I wrote this blog which was his idea to begin with.  And yes, I accept full responsibility in that I didn't HAVE to write it.

Tristan, Jake, whoever the hell is supposed to be my mate, I'M NOT OKAY.  Yes, I clearly remember the part of every vision, dream, premonition and peer-led warning where you won't show up until I'm curled up in the fetal position guarding "our child", whatever that means, screaming for you to save us.

Well guess what?  I'm assuming the position!  I'm tired of being under attack all the freaking time!  I get blamed for being a traitor and yet where is everyone, huh?  Tristan is always soooo quick to believe I'm behind anything I get indicated for.  Jake left without warning and never told me the truth!  And mutual friends I thought we could finally trust slithered around and stabbed me in the back and for what?  Because of their own private drama?

I'm sorry!  I'm sorry for everything!  I don't know what the hell I'm doing in this world and every time I try to do things right, I always end up doing it all completely wrong!  What am I supposed to do?  What am I supposed to say?  All I want, all I've EVER wanted, was just to be with the one who loves me.  That's it.  I don't care about big weddings, fancy baby announcements, white picket fences..... I just want to be with my mate.  I just want to be happy.

But there is no one coming to save the day.  I've begged and pleaded with God to bring Jake back, but he remains in the wind.  Just when I think maybe Tristan and I can be friends again, confidantes again, someone I can go to and talk with and trust, something happens and I'm his #1 enemy.

I remember the first dream I had about all this.  Clutching my daughter to my chest, crawling under the kitchen table as the men in black shadows banged and splintered the doors and windows, screaming to the intercom I knew he was listening to that I'm sorry, that if he won't save me then save my daughter, our daughter.... I remember so vividly the absolute terror of feeling death at the door, of screaming at the top of my lungs as hands covered in black gloves lunged at me.....

Doesn't anyone hear me screaming now?

Hush

I had a dream last night.

What I remember is being with "Tristan", as in the same room and talking "with", and it didn't take me long to inwardly figure out that it wasn't the real Tristan but in fact Jake.  I think.  He sure didn't act like Tristan (moody, demanding and generally unpleasant company) and reminded me more of Jake's behavior (warm, pleasant, caring, not that Tristan isn't these things but Jake just wore them on his sleeve a lot more).  Anyhow, there was some sort of debate on whether he was staying, going, my role in all of this, it was confusing to me but I do know I had something to do with his trepidation.

We sought out a man he knew, this guy who I assumed was a member of his band?  Imagine a cross between Kurt Cobain and.....actually, Tristan's sister's fiance.  Weird, now that I think of it.  I'm pretty sure it WAS Tristan's soon-to-be brother-in-law.  Whoever this guy was, he told us to join hands and the three of us sat around a table in a circle, holding each other's hands.  The man told Tristan-Jake to repeat after him, and the words went something like this:

Man: "I promise to be here"
T-J: I promise to be here
Man: "I forever bind myself to Mira"
T-J: [swallows hard and looks at me] I forever bind myself to Mira
Man: "I will never leave"
T-J: I will never leave
Man: "I bind myself to her, heart and soul, for all eternity"
T-J: I bind myself to her, heart and- wait

I looked at him, worried, terrified actually that this was going to end the same way it always does in real life (I was half-aware that what I was seeing wasn't actually happening) with him getting cold feet and me left "at the altar".  In fact, it happens a lot in my dreams, mainly with the persona assumed to be Tristan.  But this was different.

Tristan-Jake looked at me and then the man, and squeezed my hand reassuringly.  "It's not that I don't love here, I do, a LOT, but if I stay here she'll be in danger and I don't know if I can put her through that-"

The man held up a hand and looked at him sternly.  "This has to be done.  You can't leave her alone.  Again."

I cleared my throat and tried to help.  "No, I understand what he's saying, [name I forget], it has been very dangerous for both of us to even be together in the simplest of ways."

"To bind her to me and visa versa for all eternity," T-J quickly added, "means she'll always be in danger."  The look he gave me was so vivid, so...filled with terror.  "Mira," he said quietly, "I'm scared."

I felt the emotion of pure fear as strongly as anyone would in real life.  It was the most tangible thing in the dream, and somehow I knew it wasn't my own I was feeling, but his.  I gave him a soft smile and some part of my mind started to attempt a sort of "connection" with his real-life mind as I said, "I'm terrified.  I really am.  But I need you with me so we can face this together."







When I woke up, reality hit me like a truck.  Whatever the hell that dream meant, I knew one thing for certain: I'd never truly examined the screamingly obvious that's been in front of me for 2 years.

When Jake was around and we were together, it was a constant dodge of bullets, ducking of knives, hiding from men in black uniforms....he protected me and trained me to be able to survive the harshest environments in case he wasn't around and I was stranded somewhere in the wilderness.  Death threats were written on my bathroom mirror, I can't count on one hand how many times I've cleaned up his blood from knives, wounds and floors shortly after emerging from whatever closet/basement/car he shoved me into prior to the silent but intense confrontation.  Assassins emerged, my college narrowly escaped a massacre (unfortunately only by misinformation via tampered intelligence....another campus paid dearly for it), all in all the three years we were together were intense.  The powers-that-be did NOT want us together.

Jake left, Tristan came "home", and suddenly things are very, very quiet.  Only once did I get shoved into an attic but by another of his doubles, a man we knew as Derek.  Ah, Derek, I would say that I miss you, but Tristan is ssooooooooo much like you that it's like you live on through his general unpleasantness.  Derek was very much a by-the-book, get-er-done kind of guy, who confided with Jake that I started out as just an assignment and somehow became like a little sister he had to protect.

From the journal I used to keep:

I woke up at 8:30am this morning, and to my surprise Tristan still slept.  He was usually awake by now, maybe not out of bed but definitely in the waking up stages.  He continued to sleep, and so did I once I fell back asleep, for about an hour and a half.  Finally I figured it was breakfast time, and I rolled over and smiled at him.  He folded his arms behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

I peeked over his arm and flashed him a cute smile.  "Hi."

Tristan rolled his eyes, and that struck me as a bit strange.  He usually loves my cuteness.  I stroked his arm for a bit, playing connect-the-dots with his freckles, then lay my head on his chest.  Usually he would put one of his arms around me and stroke my hair.  This time he only sighed and didn't move.  I figured he may be in a mood so I asked him what he wanted for breakfast, he asked me what we had, and then decided none of our many options sounded good.  So with a shrug and a quick kiss on his lips (which he did not return) I rolled out of bed to get an orange for my breakfast.

As I started peeling my blood orange, Tristan got up and paced around in the kitchen for a bit, and at one point picked up a large knife and began rubbing it against his shorts.  Immediately I knew something was up and he didn't want to worry me.  "So, um, what's with the knife?" I casually asked.

He shrugged.  "It was a bit sticky on the sides."  He put it down on the stove, then came around and wrapped his arms around my chest.

"I need you to do something for me."

"Okay, what?"  I shuffled backwards as he led me back towards the microwave, where a bundle of neckties lay.  Tristan picked up the ugly silver paisley tie and played it in his fingers for a moment.  "Hmmm, interesting tie," he said.

I furrowed my brow.  This was strange.  "Um, yeah, I thought you bought it."

"Oh yeah," he mumbled.   He took the tie in both his hands, which were still in front of me, and began wrapping each end around his hands. 

I took this opportunity to gently but firmly pull myself out of his hold and turn around, but he did not let go of me.  He held onto my arm as I, with a playful smile, worked the necktie from his hands just like this was some new game we were playing.  It was then he lifted my hand and wiggled the ring on my finger.

"Nice ring."

That answered enough questions for me to know this was not right.  "Thanks, you gave it to me."

In that moment I think the unspoken message was sent, and we both knew this was going to be interesting. 

"I need you to do something for me," he said again, working one of my arms behind my back.  I swung around just enough to look at him with my playful grin and alert eyes.

"Jake taught me to never make a deal without the details," I reminded him with a hint of warning in my voice.  He scoffed just a bit, then pulled me close to him, rather forcefully I might add, and put my hands behind my back.  I twisted around and kept my feet planted in the fighting stance I had learned in my early teens in kickboxing, and  tensed up to silently let him know I was not going to make this easy.  Again he pulled me close but this time his hand clamped down hard over my mouth and most of my face.

"Shhhhhh, shhhhh," he whispered.  I couldn't help but raise a brow at him, for I hadn't uttered a sound.

"Cooom you bweez memoov ur thumb fum my eye?" I said against his hand.  He moved his thumb down, and I blinked a few times until  I was comfy again.  "Famk you."

"I need you to do something for me," he repeated.

"Yeff, I godd dat."

Again we moved back towards the neckties, but I resisted just enough that we were closer to the stove.  I saw the knife, and I think he saw me see the knife, for instantly we both lunged a hand towards the hilt and our fingers did a little dance until mine wrapped around the hilt and I gripped it tight.  For a fleeting moment I felt like I had done this before, as my mother almost, and in my mind's eye I saw my 2 year-old self standing in the bedroom doorway.  I dismissed that, and kept myself poised to attack, just as Jake had taught me only a few years ago.

Neither of us moved.  "I need you to go into the attic, and stay there until I come get you," he said, still calm, but I knew he was watching my arm that wielded the 7-inch blade.  I mumbled my agreement into his hand, and we shuffled our way towards the attic door.

"Dood, mm nod gonna skweem oh nnyting." I rolled my eyes again, and he let me go.

"You can get your shoes, I suggest you wear them up there."

I slipped my tennis shoes on and shoved my cell phone into my hoodie pocket, still gripping that knife and ready for any false moves.

"And I mean all the way up in the attic, not just on the stairs."

"Ugh, fine, whatever."  I slowly made my way up those dirty, most likely rotting stairs, tense for anything or anyone who could jump out at me at any moment.  "Keep going," he urged behind me in that annoying scolding voice.  I got to the very top of the stairs, took one step off the landing, and he closed the attic door behind me.

I could hear thumps, and footsteps, then more thumps.  At one point it sounded like someone, or two people, were rolling around.  Silence.  More thumps.  Footsteps drawing closer, then the front door opened, and I could hear someone running down the stairs.  Then back up.  This went on in circles for a good 10 minutes, and I had my phone on silent in case there WERE others here.  The only other time I had ever been put into a hiding place was with Jake, when men came into the church where we were and attacked him.  He had hid me in a closet office and promised to come back for me when it was over, and here in the attic I reminded myself that wasn't so bad.  I prayed, I asked God to protect Tristan and myself, and I waited.  It became quiet for a bit, maybe a slight scurrying over the roof just above me, but mostly silent.  Then I heard footsteps running up the stairs to the foyer, and someone walking around. 

I checked my phone, and Tristan was calling me.  Was it finally safe? "Hello?" I answered in a half-whisper.

"Mira? Where are you?"

It was Tristan's voice.  I felt a knot in my stomach.  "What do you mean, where am I?" And I quickly hung up, knowing more than 30 seconds and anyone could track my location.  He kept trying to call me, then he sent me a text message that read, "Where are you? You need to come Home [sic]!"

I heard footsteps near the attic door, and it opened, and I watched the shadow slowly inch up the stairs until Tristan's head popped around the corner, and then his whole body.

He was wearing completely different clothes.  He was in his uniform.

"Mira!"  Tristan sighed with relief and stabbed the knife he was holding into the wood stair.  But then he saw what I was holding in my own hand and froze. "What are you doing with a knife?"

"What are YOU doing with a knife?" I retorted, pointing at him with my blade.

"Okay, Mira, just…put the knife down and come down here."  Tristan spoke slowly and gestured with his hand that it was okay for me to lower my weapon, but I was not about to succumb so easily.

"What is something only Tristan would know?"

He sighed and shook his head.  "Like what?"

"I don't know.  How do I know who you are? Whoever you are?"

It was all making sense to me, but I didn't want to give in only to be ambushed.  "I will come down, but I am not letting go of my knife."  This was good enough for him, and he backed up and let me out of the attic.  We went into the kitchen, me staring at him the entire time intently and swallowing hard.  "You put me up there," I said slowly.

Tristan looked in my eyes, and I knew he wasn't lying.  "Mira, I haven't been home all morning."

.....

"Are you okay?" The real Tristan, my Tristan, asked me.  I nodded, and he pulled me into his arms and held me close, and I could smell the sweat on his body that told me he had indeed been out all morning doing who knows what with his group.  I set my knife down and just held him as he held me.  "I'm glad you're okay," he muttered into my hair.

I told him what happened, and he sighed and mumbled a few colorful words under his breath.  "I left around 1am this morning," he said as we shared stories in the kitchen.  "Then about half an hour ago they told me to go home and get you."

"What exactly was said?"

He laughed a bit.  Of course I would press for details. "My certain individuals just said, 'Derek's there', and I knew where they meant, so I got a ride home and ran up here.  I couldn't find you anywhere, and you weren't answering my calls, which worried me like heck!"

"Sorry," I blushed and told him why.  He just smiled and continued "So I thought of the one place anyone would be hiding, and grabbed a knife and went up there."

We talked some more, and lay down on our bed and just held each other.  I listened to his heartbeat as he stroked my hair, and for a while I propped myself up on my elbows just so I could study his face.  "I'm proud of you," he said as he twirled a strand of my hair in his fingers.  That made me smile even more, and I kissed him lovingly and purred inside as I felt him kiss me back.

Ah yes, the good old days before Tristan decided he can't stand spending more than 5 minutes with me.....

Anyhow, that whole scenario was the one and only time Tristan and I ever had to worry about anything or anyone directly attacking us.  Sure, we hurriedly fled to the west when he thought people were after us, but it was nothing as up-close-and-personal as things were with Jake around.

Which leads to my question:  what I Tristan NOT telling me about Jake?

Let's recap: 

Tristan: young, exiled prince of an intergalactic nation that is in charge of interaction and relations between the ancient civilizations and Earth.  Powerful, skilled, riddled with special abilities and great mental capacity, destined to become the ruling elder of the most ancient human civilization in our solar system if not the universe.  On Earth, vulnerable, and for all intents and purposes, raving mad.  

Jake: young Marine, orphaned, disfigured from an explosion somewhere in the Middle East, genuinely sweet demeanor, identity erased, for all intents and purposes, nothing of incredible value insofar as to be used in the game of world politics.  

So why the hell does everyone go on a death-to-all rampage while Tristan is AWAY and stop when he returns and Jake leaves?

I'm going to have a chat with Tristan.  I am so done with all these secrets.

Training

I want to lodge a formal complaint with the neighboring cities here which have ZERO true combat classes or arenas.  "True combat" meaning something more than karate or kickboxing.  Been there, done that.  I want something more along the lines of Krav Maga or Egyptian Kai.

Sometimes, while at work or just laying in bed determining whether I want to go to the gym or not (like right now), I run through the training exercises Jake had me learn years ago.  Run, drop, tuck, roll, arm up, aim straight, one foot in front of the other, run!  Over and over again, and I could never get it right.  Lights off, total silence, climb the stairs and if he could hear me at anytime, get back down and start all over.  Once he stood at the top of the landing pretending to be a guard, and mimed "watering the flowers" while whistling some ridiculous playground tune.  I burst out laughing, which received a lecture on how you never know what anyone is going to do and yes, men do pretty stupid things when they think no one is watching.

Hand-to-hand combat was not as difficult or as thoroughly needed.  Well, as I put it.  Jake didn't believe me when I said I already knew how to fight hand-to-hand, so we went through some slow-motion moves to get me warmed up.  Okay, so I wasn't the most respectful student, with the eye-rolling and sighs and insistence that I already knew this.  I tried explaining that it's instinct, that I didn't need training because in actual combat, my instincts take over and are far more accurate than my self-controlled version.  Jake raised a brow and said tough, it's highly unlikely.  So he took a swing, and in my surprise I ducked and lifted my arms in a blocking stance that deflected the blow, and my right fist jabbed at his unprotected stomach.  I stopped in time before I actually hit him.  His eyes lit up and the biggest grin crossed his face.  "Great job!" He said, looking me up and down at my, haha INSTINCTIVE stance, and I grinned back.  "Okay, so we don't need to cover that part of training...."

We went through everything, from building a shelter out of nothing to distilling water with riverbank sand.  The biggest obstacle was that stupid tree trunk that had fallen who-knows-when and hovered above the river that he was sooooooo determined I not only cross, but learn how to catch a gun on and do my "instinctive hand-to-hand" on.  I just looked at him like he'd grown a second nose.

I swear a few times he purposely acted like he'd "lost it" and gone out, literally, on the limb just so I'd be inspired to overcome my fear of that tree trunk.  One day, as we both stood on the trunk, me gripping his arm for dear life, he swore if I didn't get the next exercise right, he'd shove me off into the water.  Well we did it, I got it perfectly right thank you very much, and the next thing I knew his palm connected with my shoulder and I was falling.

"What happened, honey??" My parents snickered behind the concern in their voices as I shuffled into our house dripping wet.

"He pushed me!  He freaking pushed me!"

Oddly enough, my fear of that tree trunk vanished along with my dignity.  When next we went to continue training, we were saddened to discover the trunk was gone.  Floods or the land owner took it away, and I was miffed.  All that work, I was finally able to do everything Jake wanted me to on that stupid thing, and it was gone.

Sex

One of my temporary roommates said she'd feel uncomfortable if a guy stayed in the room available on the other side of our apartment for the summer.  Okay, I understood (kinda, for someone almost 30 years old I figured her to be a bit more...accommodating) and I didn't argue that the poor guy needed a place to stay.

Now her boyfriend comes over a lot and guess what I get to listen to in the middle of the night even when I am fast asleep in deep dream?  Yep.  Sex.  Hard, gasping, sweaty sex.  I applaud his vigor and stamina, but good grief, people!  I'm right here!  I'm totally okay if a guy lives in the room across the way, what I'm not okay with is all this huffing and puffing and other very distinctive sounds carrying out of the room right next to mine!  It's just awkward when he's still here in the morning because yes I do know what they've been up to and being an untried virgin, it's just...idk.  Weird.

Aforementioned roommate's view on relationships puzzles me.  She doesn't want to get married or have children, and she very easily breaks up with whoever she's dating at the time if, to put it bluntly, he displeases her.  She even broke up with her amazing boyfriend she's currently with because he wasn't smart enough; I was so inwardly pissed off at the pretentiousness, I politely said if she didn't want him, I'll take him, since she's putting a perfectly good dream-man to waste.  The next day they were back together, going at it in her bedroom next to mine.  Later on she told me she blames me for making her rethink her decision.  I just smiled, maybe a little too proudly, and shrugged.

What I don't understand is how someone can be so intimate with another a not feel a bond at all, and even without the bond, continue to repeat the process over and over again.  Doesn't it feel depressing at all?  I know what it's like to just kiss someone with whom there is zero intimate connection, and I did find the absence of a spark depressing.  It was empty.  How the heck can anyone have sex with the emptiness?

My views on intimacy are, for a virgin, quite vivid and intense.  I refuse to "sleep with" anyone outside of marriage, despite the frequent hunger pains for passion, because I know that whoever gets to know me THAT intimately will be bound to me and I to him for all eternity.  I won't just have sex.  I will make love, and quite vigorously.  To me, the whole act is an art form, and you can't honestly slap paint on a wall and call it art; it takes time and effort and a certain finesse.  Sex is an art for private commission only, and hell yes am I a firm believer in performing for one's mate often, if not every day/night.  Too often I hear complaints about how couples only get to be with each other 3 nights a week, or how the woman is frigid, or the man is too demanding.... That is also depressing.  But then again, understandable, if we assume the factors behind the ailments have anything to do with having sex without the bond.

I've considered becoming a sex therapist.  Honestly, though, I just can't do it, mainly because if word got out I'm a virgin, I would lose all credibility.  As if I could speak from experience!

Sometimes, when people learn that I am a virgin and almost 22 years old, they wonder what's wrong with me, like I'm some sort of defective good.  Oftentimes, to my great relief, I get congratulated, my hand shaken with honor, and told repeatedly to keep on going with my vows so I can avoid the torments that come with impatience.  Even my sister Kami made me promise to "do things right".  Mom has asked me to, should I ever find myself unable to withstand the insatiable hunger for passion, to at least be married, formal ceremony or no.

The closest I've ever come to recanting my vows was with Tristan, and purely for the sake of having a child to love, raise, and inherit the throne of Gora.  Well, come to think of it, I'm not sure what one would consider "close".  Discussing the options and determining a set date?  Tristan.  Laughing and giggling, kissing, playfully flipping up skirts and unbuttoning shirts only to put them back in place to start the game all over again, dancing on the edge of propriety and desire?  Jake.  Most definitely Jake.  We never talked as thoroughly about the subject, but the prospect was there, hanging in the air between us like invisible and magnetic mistletoe.  One night, when he was staying over at my place (I lived in a hotel that summer), I'd slipped into bed while he was in the shower.  When he was ready for bed as well and yanked the covers off to tease me, his eyes went wide and the biggest grin/gasp spread on his face at the sight of my bare legs.  I honestly don't remember what happened after that.  Damn.

I've thought long and hard about my regrets, and one big one that stands out in my mind is that I never experienced the intense intimacy of making love with Jake.  Not that it wasn't on the table.  Oh yes, we had many a conversation debating whether we should just go at it or not.  He wanted to, oh so very much so, and I wanted to stick to my vows of waiting until marriage.  During one such conversation, he "married" us over the phone, being certified to perform marriage ceremonies thanks to some program on the internet, and I couldn't help but blush and laugh.  And I honestly asked myself if I should just do it.

Damn my stubbornness.

For a while I was grateful, seeing as there is more than one "Tristan Keller" and I'm meant to be with one of them, but now I'm just banging my head into the wall.  Duh.  Duh, duh, duh.  When Tristan himself said Jake loved me, I inwardly screamed at myself.  How could I have been so dense?  Of course I was cautious in believing this "news", but Tristan had a valid argument.  And he knew the behind-the-scenes persona of Jake, who he really was to an extent greater than my own knowledge.  Even now, and for the past year, Tristan has repeatedly told me he's certain I will be with Jake again.  When the Goran Prince makes even the most offhand observation of what may yet to come, he is very, very rarely wrong.  In fact, I can't think of a time when he WAS wrong.

My mind and heart are haunted with memories, and the only way to put them to rest is to get closure of any kind, the best being Jake's return.  I'm just terrified I will see him again, only to discover everything WAS just an act and my love is only for someone who truly does not exist.  But I have to believe Tristan, and Raine, and the aching feeling deep in my soul that this was and is all very real.

In an effort to drown myself to the truth, I have spent the last two years doing idiotic things.

Now, as the two year anniversary of Jake's disappearance into the world and my introduction to the true existence of our kind, via Prince Tristan approaches, I have to owe up to my mistakes.  My blemishes.  My shortcomings, downfalls, and betrayals.

The world, my friends and family, don't blame me nor do they call it betrayal.  But my heart says differently.  I have tried to do as everyone would expect, to move on and find happiness in another man and in myself.  I repeated the words Jake said to me shortly before he left over and over in my mind, trying desperately to believe them so there could be peace.  "I don't want you falling in love with me."

Over and over again I told myself that everything was just a lie, just a cover, just a facade to save the life of a young man, a prince.  I did my part in playing the loving girlfriend and companion.  Only when Tristan himself revealed the truth of his part in everything did I stop pretending.  So I thought, at least.  I showed him just how fierce I could be, I told him exactly what I think about his personal policies, and I made no secret of our disagreements.  I was so tired of pretending everything was okay when it was hell.

But I never stopped lying to myself.

Living in a city full of beautiful men, in a neighborhood overflowing with hormones and virile males more than willing to give a good roll in the sheets....it has given me a new perspective on who I truly am.  All this time I've been trying to be a normal woman, someone who can just flirt at will and seduce whoever she wants because she belongs to no one.  But standing in the middle of a swimming pool surrounded by shirtless men, standing on a small stage in a bar surrounded by men staring and leering like wolves, standing in the midst of every opportunity to "move on".... I want none of it.  I don't want a single one of the golden gods, of the horny alcoholics, nor of any gentleman who is kind enough to extend an invitation into womanhood.

I want Jake.

Two years of telling myself I can do whatever the hell I want have come into this conclusion that no, I cannot, and I really don't have the desire to.

When Simon leaned in so very close, slipped off his sunglasses, and said with just a slight slur,  "I am going to do to you what I've never done to anyone else in my whole life," something or someone so definitely NOT me lunged out through my mind and soul into his with a very loud "THE HELL YOU DO!"   I swear I saw an invisible fist connect with his head.  I matched his gaze dead-on and when he moved just a fraction closer, I threw up every single mentally-induced wall I could muster, slamming them together without the benefit of arm movement.  I felt like two completely different people were flowing through me; myself and someone else both raising to the defenses of my virtue.  I knew it was just a kiss, but even the thought of actually kissing someone else, no matter who he is, both repulsed and terrified me.

Simon's eyes clouded over.  He didn't move, didn't speak, for what felt like an hour.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Raine and Marshall watching intently, his eyes on me and Raine focused completely on Simon.  I felt a sort of....physical embodiment, like a "ghost arm", clench a fist and I felt like I should actually make a fist even if to just keep it on my lap.  Simon swallowed, and gave a lewdly gentle smile.  "Since I can't kiss your lips, I will savor the taste of your..."  I felt another pulse surge through me into him, and he muttered, "hand."

That I could live with.  I half expected him to pull a frenchie on my wrist (yes, have had that done to my poor hand by none other than a married man, ugh), but it was chaste.  Lingering, but chaste.  He repeated the notion each time I tried to slip away, but I finally gave him a kiss on the cheek after a hug just to throw him off a bit long enough for me to make my swift exit in grace and tact.  It worked.

Later on, when I told Raine about the sensations, she explained that it may have been her.  She knew immediately what Simon's intentions were and, being just like me in almost every way (which makes me wonder about her own genetics), she slammed herself into him.  Just threw herself into his mind and ordered him to cease and desist if he valued his manhood and pride.  Apparently she's done this once before on him when he put the moves on her, and his eyes clouded then as well.  I was grateful for this explanation and took it as that.  An explanation for the sensation of someone else "jumping" through me.

But it didn't feel like Raine.  Nor did it sound like her.  It was very distinctly male.

This could all be my vivid imagination, I know.  But all day I have been reviewing my life since meeting Jake and dammit all, I HAVE to believe he is alive!  I have to believe that God in His infinite wisdom and grace and unending love, not to mention the fact that He NEVER lies, kept His promises and did not just lead me on a merry chase to no where!

I prayed as a young girl for a love story unlike any other.  Dating identical non-related twins, one a marine and the other an extraterrestrial prince, definitely answered that prayer.  I prayed for guidance in finding the husband God chose for me, that He would restrict my abilities to be with whoever I wanted so I wouldn't make the common mistakes of a woman in heat.  I wanted so desperately to give myself only to the man destined to be my husband.  I prayed that my first kiss would only be with my true mate.  I prayed, I begged God to control my love life so I wouldn't end up a single mother of fatherless children, always fighting some asshole for a few scraps of bread.

I was 16 when I met Jake.  The summer of my 18th birthday was when we danced on a sandbar in the middle of the small river that flowed through our favorite "hideaway" woods, when he undid my braid and ran his fingers through my hair saying he liked it better that way, when I tried to steal a kiss and he dodged it and I moaned that he always avoids me, when he asked "what, this?" and took my breath away in the most electrifying kiss I have ever experienced.  I was 19 the following summer when we danced with the notion of taking things a step further; we knew we would be married and wanted each other so very much, but we held true to honor and a certain amount of propriety; then he left for a week and when he came back, told me he didn't know if he wanted to marry me anymore.  Then everything was shattered.  I learned the truth, learned of the existence of Tristan, of the curse placed on my family by those starving for power, and of Jake's role in my life.

When I turned 20 Jake and I decided to be friends, in the way he wasn't allowed with anyone else even within the Organization.  I learned about his past, what he would tell at least, I tried to learn about who he was as Jake, not Tristan.  I found that I liked him, despite the all-too-effective lies.  And he told me he didn't want me to fall in love with him.  When I asked him why, since he'd completed the task of breaking me the first time he dumped me, did he ever resume our relationship and plan marriage, he did not have an audible answer other than, "Things....came up.  Stuff happened."  He didn't even look me in the eye when he said that little bit.

My 21st birthday was spent drinking spiced beer alone in my empty apartment with no food other than an ice cream cake courtesy of my mother via mailed gift card.  Jake was dead.  Tristan was decidedly gay.  I was alone with my thoughts, without a job or a shred of dignity.  Virgin, overweight, decaying from the inside-out.

I turn 22 in a month.  I've never kissed a man other than Jake or Tristan, the latter so physically reminiscent of the former, it could be argued that I've only kissed one man my entire life.  I'm still a virgin; despite my attempts to get the courage to change it, the second I have the opportunity on a platter I backpedal for my life, dignity and strangely, for the honor of a man who remains a mystery to me.  And I have not dated anyone other than those two.  Online relationships, however "real" they may seem, do not count.  Because even then, my thoughts were with Jake.

Marshall asked me if I want to live the rest of my life in loneliness.  I realized that it's better than living a lie with someone else, and I told him so.  He shook his head and further emphasized the need for me to find a good man to take care of me; despite the frustration of him not understanding the situation, I felt honored that he cares about me so much.  He would see me happy, which would make Raine even happier.  Marshall was a soldier, so we do connect on that level of understanding.

I sang during the karaoke part.  Two of the songs I picked as a private dedication to Jake, remembering how he encouraged me to sing, how we would spend hours at the piano composing and losing ourselves in the music.  When I started to sing the second song, "My Immortal" by Evanescence (cliche, but fitting), the whole bar quieted.  Women turned around in their seats to watch, men sat down in tables and chairs closer to the stage.  I hid the blush and focused on the song, and imagined Jake standing right there in front of me, listening to me sing of my pain and sorrow and yearning.  Every note was hit perfectly, and I knew deep down that all this, the perfection and glamour, all of it was my crying out for him to come home.  Had it been any other song, any other words, I'd get by.  But this was my plea for him.

Jake, I don't know if you can or are reading this, or if you even know who I am through all the name changes and such.  But I have to try.  Two years ago I made the same effort for Tristan, thinking that since you didn't want me I must have been meant for him.  The effort worked, but I was so wrong.  So horribly wrong.  How can I beg forgiveness for the same stupidity I keep committing?

I pray that God will bring you home.  This is your home, where people love you and miss you and want you back.  I miss you more than words can describe!  So many times I have imagined what it would be like to see you again, even for a moment, and I honestly don't know what I would say.  My family missed you, our friends miss you, and my niece needs to meet the man who makes her aunt smile brighter than sunlight.  I refuse to believe you are dead because every bone in my body screams you're alive.  I feel you, even as far apart as we are.

And I am so, so, so extremely sorry for hurting you.

Please, Jake, find this and come home.