My demons of self-loathing and rage need conquering, integrating. Fighting them isn’t the point, won’t work. They need to be understood, defanged, resolved.
I was raised to view all mistakes as catastrophic, as personal failures, as huge things that endangered the future. These mistakes disappointed everyone, and they convinced me to think I was fundamentally flawed and unworthy of love or positive attention. Oh, I could be quite good, but I developed a fear of criticism because criticism meant I’d screwed up, and even polite, well-meaning criticism was seen as a veiled “Yeah, screw up, and we’ll have expected it…and you can’t say we didn’t warn you.” Sure, I’d try to blame others and get mad, but that shifted after the initial adrenaline rush into panic and self-loathing and self-defeating resignation—a weird “Time to commit seppuku” mentality—because the only way to atone for my supposed mistakes was some kind of self-annihilation because nothing else was sufficient given how little I thought of myself at these times.
So I became quite willing to engage in self-reflection, but often through a fun house mirror of self-image and appraisal. The imposter syndrome was with me often because I couldn’t get how much harder things were for others and I assumed if I was as good as I was given my (often) lack of effort than those who worked harder had to be better.
My sense of self-esteem became mercurial and fragile, and I turned myself to forecasting bad possible futures (______). __________ meanwhile was that part that hated itself and wanted to hide and recoil. And to resist fiercely not being that way.
–wandering the playground in 4th and 5th grade by myself with nothing but my thoughts, depressed, lonely, and bullied (but _________ had probably been bullied for being fat and I was the skinny white kid)…
There have You have many friends and people who love and care for you, who want to help you, who value their time with you and your presence in their lives. They are not compelled or guilted into doing so.
If Dana chooses you, you aren’t worthless—if she calls you, you are someone special.
You need to derail and defuse your random vengeance fantasies because they rile you up and into distracting mania—and lacking the power to act on those fantasies, I just get angry with no way/where to direct that anger except against myself and those near me. I also get angry out of all proportion—not healthy, helpful, or social. Safe word?
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Y’know, talking to the demons seems better—guide them to work with you, acknowledge their purpose and what they want to be.
The Beast wants to be a hero, wants to help and protect and to stand tall and proud, wants to speak articulately and eloquently and with fire (and thunder)—and so do I…
_____, too, wants to be something different—a seeker, an imagineer, a poet of forms and wits and visions.
__________, too, could be a golden child—or more—
Even The ____ could—and has been—a trickster and friendly, even wise comic spirit.
But work and training and diligence from us all—and an eye for the demons I haven’t recognized yet.
Here I am at [work] engaged in soul work—
My time at ___ has given me time and opportunity to read, to think, to meditate, to ponder, to magic. And my statement of intent produced, well, an engagement with The Beast.
Demons would really rather be something else, but they forget and try to make others like them.
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The woman from Shakespearean Tragedies was Dana, appearing during or after 1.4 and Mercutio’s Mab speech—which you only now realize because of [Elethis] and my degree, but there’s laughter and magic in that. I was visited by a faerie queen in a hypnagogic state.