Me & My Demon alternatively I Am My Demon

I’ve had occasion to discuss my demon before. I call her an evil bitch, but that’s not really the case at all. She’s evil to everyone else. To me she’s a flaming sword.

The other day I asked someone “do you think in words or images?” It was an interesting conversation. One that I really want to explore. I asked her what would happen if I asked her to describe something how would she think about the something? She said she thinks in words. I think of different concepts in images. I can describe it to you in words, but it’s formed a shape in my mind – even concepts that don’t have a visual cue get one in my mind.

Now, back to my demon. I don’t see myself as a group of different personalities, as seen in dissociative identity disorder, but I do visualize different parts of myself. Like the cartoon movie about emotions. They’re different only insofar as I need them to be. And most halfway intelligent people will understand this, of course. This type of thing is continuously represented in our culture. But if you talk about it like I think about you? Whoa boy.

I was describing my emotional side and visualized a plain, white wall. Not a wall into which I run, but one that I walk alongside. It’s there to keep me (my rational self) out. Not to stop me. The wall is lawless and only a wall because of the highlights and outline. Otherwise it would look like a white void. That’s where my id lives. Locked behind an impenetrable wall.

I thought for a while my Id was also my demon, but that’s not the case at all. I’ve decided that my demon is a perfectly trained attack dog. A wolf? A vicious beast of some sort. She’s just there to protect me. To go on the attack. That’s her only real function. Sometimes she likes to come out and play, but that usually ends bad. My Id has the most control of this hellbeast. She keeps track of everything then bam!

I talk about this part of me, because how it was developed in childhood has been a hindrance my entire life. My therapist says she was developed as a defense mechanism, because I was physically weak. When I was young I was constantly told that 1) I was super smart and 2)nothing special that should’ve been aborted. These two things were constant and sometimes they were spouted in the same sentence. That started really young. The Mother didn’t like me because I was a result of her marriage. I was a result of her failure. And because she was also mentally ill she made light work of me and my psyche. It didn’t take me long to see how she wielded my own thoughts against me. She found every weakness and went in for the kill. Then she’d boost me back up with some bullshit about my brain power. Then she’d swoop in and take my legs out from under me again. All the time. All the fucking time.

When I was 35 she finally admitted to hating me my entire life. I’d spent a lot of years hating her too, so that wasn’t any kind of big insight. The reason was a bit shocking: she hated me because I was too much like her. I don’t even know if I believe that at all, but it was half true so ok. She was the only parent I ever knew. The only one that was there. Luckily, I had my great-grandmother, grandmothers and my aunts to keep me even when I was a child. I knew they loved me. I kept hold of that for so many years. If I hadn’t had those wonderful people offering what protection they could, then who knows where I’d be now. My mother was very mentally ill and she couldn’t stand me. She was also very proud of my intelligence – which she hated. That’s how I learned to love myself. There are parts that are absolutely good and parts that are absolutely bad. Those are the parts that rule my head and, well, my life. This push and pull that never fucking ends.

“Yes, I can do this.”
“You really are smart enough to do it.”
“I’m going to do it!”
//halfway through a project//
“You really actually suck at this. Gods, you’re awful.”
“You’re right. What’s the point?”

Anyway, when I got to be so old, I started talking back. I knew what my mother was doing to me wasn’t fair. I was fully aware. Why did I get a whooping for my sister’s bad behavior? Why was my brother allowed to beat me up1? Why was everything bad my fault? Why didn’t my mother love me like she loved my sister? I got fed up. I was very, very young.

My beast wasn’t very good at her job yet. I started with “I hate you” and moved up to see what reaction I would get. I knew I’d hit a soft point when I’d get a negative reaction. I went after my brother and sister – just to see what reactions I could get. I did it to kids at school. I honed my weapon on everyone – except my grandmothers and aunts. Eventually The Mother declared all out war on me. And it was on for years and years. Every single time I had my foot on the step to go up the ladder that bitch would push me off. I couldn’t learn to succeed because she never allowed me when I was young. Then, as I grew older, I stopped trying to go up that ladder. I’d get up a rung or two then jump right off. I still do that to this day. I have skills and talents, sure. That’s all well and good. But the years I spent trying to prove myself to my mother taught me that I shouldn’t bother because I just really suck anyway. My demon was born from that pain.

I need her, I think. I think everyone needs their demon sometime. I need mine to be able to navigate the world. I want to please everyone. I want to save people and make them feel loved. But a lot of these people just take advantage. The people I need in my life, to help me stay afloat, are people I’m afraid of. People who don’t understand. So I stay away from them. I navigate toward people like Lucifer and Sam. Broken people understand better. They’re no more capable of dealing with me than I am, but they understand better. And, I guess, they’re easier for me to understand. They’re easier to be around. And easier to hurt in the end.

It’s exhausting fighting this battle, though. To be completely real, I am exhausted. I don’t do well on my own. I need someone who’s bold enough to allow me to let my demon out to play while also being strong enough to hold me down. Lucifer was that guy for a minute2 The pup never was3. I need some relief from the thoughts in my head. It’d be nice if I could find someone strong enough to deal with me so I can lean on him. I know I’m supposed to be strong and independent. But I’m not. I need someone to help keep me together. Hold me down. Help me find that elusive calm place that the pup used to bring me. That’s not going happen anytime soon. So, I’ll just meet a guy, get sick of him and then move on to the next. Like it was before, so shall it ever be.

I like geeky stuff, politics, squirrels and monkeys.

  1. He threw me off a roof when I was a year old and broke my arm. My mother could never remember which arm, though. []
  2. But he’s an actual demon. And my demon loved to go to battle with him. He’s the only person in over 20 years who has been able to get inside my head like that. That was the best part. []
  3. Strong or bold. He never saw the side of me Lucifer loved the most. I never showed him because I just didn’t think he’d handle it well. I followed his lead and, well, there was no boldness there. []
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