Posted on | February 3, 2014 | 4 Comments

Everyone has their demons. For some, it’s drugs; for others alcohol. Some people fight demons of anorexia or bulimia, some fight the demons of poverty or depression.

Among the many, and yes… I said many, demons that I fight on a regular basis, the most ferocious of all is the one who hovers over me, dripping venom that I drink like wine and roars that I am never. good. enough. My biggest demon is the one that tells me no matter how hard I try, no matter how much I work… I will never be as pretty, as smart, as talented, as accepted, as picture perfect special as everyone else in any and every room.

And he’s a very convincing demon.

He drapes an arm around my shoulders, pretending he’s my friend, and points out the pretty, the special, the well-loved. He pats me soundly with his clawed paw and gives me a knowing glance that says “Not you, you see?”

I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel. I hate the way he shows me the inside of my head, painted black and ugly and then tells me it’s all I am. I hate that he tells me I’m fat, I’m stupid, I’m not a good lawyer, mother, house keeper, girlfriend, or wife. I hate that he whispers the thoughts in my head so loudly that I swear everyone will hear him and everyone will know that I’m just no good. At anything.

But mostly, I hate that I have spent my entire life believing him. I hate that when I get dressed, he is who I turn to for approval… this monstrous demon in my head who will never tell me I look nice but who will always, ALWAYS, point out the stretching seams of my clothes, the worn tips of my shoes, the broken thread of my purse. He will be the one who tells me I don’t look like an attorney… I don’t look like a  put together woman.

“TRASH,” he’ll yell, with a satisfied sneer, knowing I’ll believe him. Knowing I’ll always and only believe him.

He is ever present, ever watching, ever waiting for me to give the slightest indication that I need his approval… and then he pounces: reminding me of the brownie I had after dinner, the stack of work remaining to be done at the office, the cobwebs in the corners of my home, the tears on the cheeks of my child.

He is always there.

And the only thing that silences him, the only thing that keeps him at bay, is watching the distance creep higher on my phone, feeling my feet pounding beneath me, hearing nothing but the roar of my own breath in my ears. He is why I run… to outdistance him or rather myself, to remind myself that I can do or be or try anything. To reinforce that I am strong… stronger than him, stronger than I thought, stronger than I often believe I can be.

So when he roars, I run.  Not because I am afraid, but because it is what makes me strong enough to turn and face him, sweat dripping down, my body and soul electric with exercise, and roar back, hearing my voice echo off my soul:



4 Responses to “Demons”

  1. cindyw
    February 3rd, 2014 @ 10:02 am

    Wow. I could’ve written this myself. When I get really anxious about something, The Guy will ask me, “So, let’s just pick one thing that the voices in your head are telling you today and dissect it.” And talking it out helps, for a while, but it always comes back. Same with running/working out. I feel better while I’m doing it, but those voices always, always come back eventually.

    I so wish there was a way to re-program that particular part of our brains.

  2. Law Momma
    February 3rd, 2014 @ 10:05 am

    I would totally volunteer for that reprogramming. Wouldn’t it be awesome to wake up every morning like “Damn. I’m so kickass.”

  3. Santa Claus
    February 3rd, 2014 @ 1:43 pm

    Wishing you and your little one lifetimes filled with happiness, peace, good health, prosperity, and, most of all, love. Blessings, Santa :-)}

  4. Law Momma
    February 3rd, 2014 @ 2:30 pm

    Ho! Ho! Ho! 🙂

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    Spilled Milk (and Other Atrocities) by Law Momma is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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