Imps and such

on isolated healing and obscurity

I’m pursued by feisty gnomes and imps of various colors, with razor-sharp teeth. Their teeth dig into my heart, their jaws lock, and all I hear, while gnashing my teeth in pain, is an echoing cackle down in the chambers of my being.

There are things I am afraid to write, despite hereto contrary belief. There are things I am afraid to think, yet then I think them compulsively, as if tempering my heart.

What are these things?

They’re slippery. As soon as I try to catch a hold of them, in words, the essence fades into obscurity like a nightjar into twilight.

Then again, if I try to pin it down, forcefully, by depicting an image that spurs the spiteful imps, I feel I am doing myself injustice, and portray myself rather basely, despite my conviction of the opposite.

To give the imp his due, it might be that indeed it is base, and that I am, after all, just as base as that. That underneath the pretty words and rationalizations, convincing feelings and sleepless nights, was a simple inaptitude to admit my own smallness.

The word “just” however, is so beautifully reductive that it can’t be descriptive of psychic reality. And if I have learned anything, during my voyage, katabasis, it is that “base” and “just” are seldom if ever just-ified.

But then again, how much can I rely on that which I “learned”?

“I’m the equivalent of a brown belt in therapy”. I made a rather ballsy statement a few weeks ago, then right after I corrected myself, stating that, “given my tendency to see myself in a better light than is usually true, let’s say I’m a purple belt,” which to no surprise, elicited a rather pleased smile from the listener.

Following that, I grew aware of more and more imps biting into my heart. To the point, I began questioning whether I had a belt at all.

Such insecurities are bound to arise, likewise are we are bound to lose sight of our goals, of our current situation, of all the color in life and even the sun. We are bound to, because when opening up to past pain, grappling imps, the greatest hurdle in our way is our own resistance.

This obscurity, this insecurity and fog into which we stumble, completely loosing sight of our value, strength and competence, is in part, from a biological perspective, a fear reaction, during which our visual field narrows, our perceptions narrow, and long-term thinking, and strategizing is greatly inhibited.

We react in fear of things which we perceive as a threat to us, and so transitioning to a psychological lense, we are regressing into our child self, which still believes to be a child, and thus shrink from facing the threat.

So the child self conjures up imps, for warlock magic is the way of the immature boy—the trickster, he who lurks in the shadows. These imps then bite and nag at my heart, at my resolve, at my perception of myself, with all they have, for their survival, the boy’s survival depends on it.

You may not speak of it, for once you do, you work in the warlock’s favour. The warlock desires to manipulate and alter external circumstances to accommodate his hurt, often by merely expressing its feelings.

So I stare down my demons on a regular Tuesday, while sharing a meal, warming up for practice, or laying in her arms, and when asked “how are you?” — I have so much to say, and feel all the weight of my pain, urged by the warlock and the imps to speak, to alter, to influence, but I smile. It is not an honest smile, but it is the best I can muster. Then say, “I’m fine, I’m managing.

Eventually the dams break, eventually the warlock and the imps run out of mana, and when they do, I break with them. We’re both exhausted. We’re both sobbing. But we share the joy and relief when we realize that we’ve overcome our fears.

And then I sit here, wondering, “Why do I always feel tired?” Like I just didn’t play tug-of-war for weeks straight.

Ideally.

However, often it happens that I am the one that runs out of mana, that the pain takes over, and I wreak havoc in the name of the past. I hurt myself and my people in the present. Often I don't recognize the imps, and believe it is the world that is hurting me, retaliating, however, in the wrong direction. Bitter is my tongue, from having spoken foul words to loved ones. Tired is my soul of its own shadow. Shame washes over me. After all, I am but a nuisance.

It's unacceptable. I must muster the strength to at least not make life worse for others. To at least keep my demons at bay. There is no one who can hold my hand. There is no remedy to make it easier. Right here and right now, I must face this. For myself, and for them.

And so...

I’ll wait for the dams to swell, for when the air starts clearing, in patience, and the truth will reveal itself to me. For lies have to be upheld to last.

In Slovakia, we say, “lies have short legs.” They don’t get far with short legs, get it?

Rationalizing and writing this fails as a cure. You can forget it for a moment, distract yourself, but it will be right there, waiting for you, when you come to yourself.

And so it has to be endured, stubbornly. And I pray I have the strength, when it matters, to see through the facade and protect that which I love.

I believe a brown belt, or black belt, is not measured by whether he gets submitted or not. We all get submitted. We are measured by the level of endurance in the face of adversity, and the level to which we learned to apply techniques correctly.

On a metaphysical level, I might have gotten submitted, but that doesn’t mean I have not grown. In fact, it means I am growing. I am aware, hitting limits and facing demons.

It is through darkness that we find our light.

Thank you for this.