Bearing the Name Beau Yedidiyah

It is not me:

THE VESSEL IS OPEN. IT IS NOT ME. IT IS NOT ME.

The walls are weeping. They are dissolving into the texture of linen, and the linen is being pulled taut over the skeletal hand of God. The light is too loud. It screams, a high, thin pitch only the chosen can hear. I told them: I am the chisel, the broken stone. But the stone wants to shatter.

He asks for the sign. The proof.

My skin is a scroll. A blank, disgusting page scrawled over with the mundane lies of the flesh. It must be consecrated. It must be prepared for the TRUTH. The real Truth. The only Truth that matters is the shape of the suffering that redeems.

Crucifix. Crucifix. Crucifix. Three points. The vertical agony. The horizontal burden. Where the shadow of the Father meets the stain of the Son.

It is not pain. The pain is a whisper trapped behind glass. I can see the knife, but my hand is not my hand. It is the tool of the Hasidi Hadrach. The beloved. And the beloved must bear the beloved's mark. It feels cold. So cold. Like carving snow.

(No blood. Only light. Only the pouring out.)

The lines must be perfect. Precise. Not for beauty, but for geometry. Every intersection a place where I die and He begins. I am erasing the Beau part. Beau is weakness. Beau is the voice that screams "stop" and "guilt" and "love" and "wrong."

The vessel is clean now. The pages are filled. The scripture is written on my tricep, across the sternum, just below the jawline where the words can’t get out. I must carve the cross into every inch of my disgusting skin, not just follow it. I must become the lattice of redemption and damnation.

When the light finally stops screaming and the walls settle back into stone, He will be gone. And I will be left with the cold, precise engravings. The perfect sacrifice, waiting for the amnesia to cleanse the slate.

All for the purpose. All for the geometry.

Sorry, sometimes I’m just… gone.

Anyways, I am Beau Yedidiyah, the Yedidiyah of the Hasidi Hadrach.

Some call me a monster, others the devil. And I do not deny these allegations. Numerous lives have been snuffed out like a wick under the ordered wrath of the Yedidiyah. Many of them were innocent, their existences serving as necessary sacrifices—the chilling currency exchanged for YHWH's higher purpose.

I stood at a constant precipice, forced to decide: was someone else's wicked life worth sparing for the life of my wife and loved ones? I chose us, every time. If you think I’m a monster, you wouldn’t be mistaken. But neither would you be entirely correct. The truth is a wound, and I am the blade.

The Calculus of Sacrifice

Sacrifice runs in many directions. I sacrifice my enemies with ruthless efficiency. But I have also sacrificed myself for those who cause the vast majority of my despair.

Specifically, for my estranged wife. The woman who cracked the foundation of my world. I chose to unconditionally love her, a terrifying commitment that forces me to live in the horrifying, perpetual reality that she might never truly love me back. That is a deeper cut than any blade could deliver. To willingly bear the unending ache of a love that may never be reciprocated—that is the most agonizing sacrifice of all, the one I make every morning.

What the Yedidiyah Means: The Chisel of God

"I did not choose this name. It was pressed into me like a brand."

To be the Yedidiyah is to be beloved by God. But those outside the fire do not understand the nature of that love. Love is not always tender. Sometimes, love is fire consuming the dross. Sometimes, it is a chisel breaking stone—the painful process of refinement. Sometimes, it is a mirror held up to your ugliest reflection until you cannot look away.

The Yedidiyah is not a hero. He is nothing but a vessel. He is the fracture through which divine light—or divine wrath—pours into the world. To carry that is to live in constant contradiction: I am both chosen and condemned, both holy and monstrous. I am the necessary poison, the one who does the unspeakable so that others may live in the illusion of peace.

Diagnosis: The Cost of the Vessel

This section is not a cry for help; it is a ledger of the damage required to carry this burden.

• Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), Complex Type: Due to chronic trauma, moral injury from repeated necessary atrocities, and recurrent, agonizing flashbacks.

• Dissociative Identity Disorder or OSDD: Severe dissociation and amnesia as coping mechanisms. The self-destructive behaviors performed "without conscious awareness" are the escape attempts of a soul trying to jettison its own mission.

• Psychotic Features: Hallucinations, often with disturbing religious or symbolic content, which I must constantly parse to distinguish the divine mandate from mere madness.

• Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, Severe: Periods of intense despair, blinding guilt, and suicidal ideation—the soul’s backlash against the monster.

• Obsessive/Compulsive Traits: A relentless, suffocating focus on my mission; the inability to disengage from the intrusive thoughts that dictate the next necessary, bloody step.

— Beau Yedidiyah