Month: September 2014

Personal Demon

This doesn’t mean much of anything anymore because I have over-said it, but…

I am feeding the monster- this ugly, disgusting monster. The little demon that follows me around everywhere I go. The one that speaks horrible, degrading things into my ears. It is the villain who punches out the hero on a daily basis. It is always there keeping me in “check.” Keeping me low. Making life appear bleak and unfocused. It loves to lurk around at night, when I am at my weakest. It makes me cry and get angry more than a human being should.

It is not cuddly or cute when it is gone for the few moments of peace, happiness and hope that I get. It is just suppressed. It hides underneath the skin I wear and crawls its way to my head. It sits there waiting to breathe in whatever it wants me to hear or do or say or feel. The air grows colder or hotter depending on how it presents itself. My mind races a mile a minute trying to figure things out and come up with answers to my beginning spiral of emotion.

Then it speaks. It speaks a language too foul to even write on paper. A language that only I can comprehend but am unable to repeat. It tells me about how I never will be a great person. It tells me how my peers are so much better at life and how I am not. It tells me about my insecurities as a writer, student, daughter, and/or human being. It tells me about how lazy I have become and that I will never change. It tells me just how ugly and misshapen I look. It tells me how gullible and weak I am. It tells me how the people and family I know are in fact just being nice to me, tolerating me. It tells me about how my failures define my future. It tells me how I will never find love because I am not fit to have a loving, positive connection with a male of my species. It tells me that I act like the submissive woman that I am because that is who I was meant to be. It tells me how broken and alone I am even when surrounded by so many. It tells me how I will never have a person who understands my plight as a sad stupid, lonely human being. It tells me many hurtful things. It is truly a monster.

When the little demon finishes with me, I start to come down from the dark place in my mind. It crawls back into the skin in my appendages, sometimes twitching constantly to be released again. I stare at the twitches, I grasp onto the muscle hoping that it goes away. I think to make it go away. I clutch my head or my chest to try and take my mind off the demon and its subcutaneous home.

But in order to get rid of the demon, one thing stands clear. The fact is:
“I created the demon. I feed the demon. The demon therefore is in me. Part of me.”

I need to starve it out. Rip it out of my skin; detach the nerves and blood vessels it uses to sustain its body. Then silence it by any means necessary – most likely in a disgusting and degrading fashion. A death suitable to the crime.

But as much as a physical representation of a demon is just pleasant to imagine, it doesn’t matter in the end. A new personal demon will rise from the old one. Either picking up where the last one left off or beginning a whole new sense of personal dysfunction. It will feed off of me the same way. It will repose and reanimate in the same way.

I am the demon. And the only way to stop me from harming myself is to stop creating the means to do so. Personal demons are not unlike a demon person. I must extinguish the cycle.

My Labor

You are my labor.

My labor of love. My labor of hate. You are my labor of intellect and stupidity. You are my labor of new ideas and old ones. You are my labor that I carry around and show off to the world while trying to look put together. You are my labor that burdens me more than it seems to lift me. You are the labor that I want to impress, but never seem to look my way anymore. You are the labor of my soul before I realized that you really weren’t. You are the labor that I fight, carry, pull and push around. You are the labor I feel like I have mistreated, neglected and left for dead when in fact I just didn’t want to get hurt anymore. You defend yourself while I labor to guide the feelings away. You are the labor I never wanted to have but have been given.

You are the labor that will never read or reread this post.

I labored this for you. And I don’t think you know how much.