A demon nourished into daimonness
Self-rejection has been one of my closest companions since puberty. Oftentimes, when I felt hurt, wronged or in any way conflicted by friends or family, I retreated into the safe haven of looping self-denial. Experience had taught me that my deepest feelings and safety were at crucial times not of keen interest to care takers, so (close emotional) intimacy was a threat to my self-preservation. I surely was nourished by other love languages, but the impact of our family’s (and, in a broader sense, community’s) disrupted cohesion was evident.
Of course, I crave intimacy like anybody else and of course, when I went out into the world to explore and create a new sense of belonging, that came with challenging situations – living together is complex. And thus, I said sorry repeatedly (and, yes, again) out of a fear of abandonment and projected an image of perfection frustrating relational freedom, often suppressing the actual simplicity of a feeling and the downright reality of reciprocity in social connections, particularly those near and dear. I ended up moving from avoidance to clinging, not finding much rest in the ongoing ambivalences. I knew better, but I was afraid. There was a learning process going on, my brittle inner value system was a whispering guide, but it felt painstakingly slow at times.
Behaviorally, from adolescence onward, I perfected the art of self-rejection through a form of rigid control born out of emotionally shattering experiences and educational frustration. Minimizing my calorie intake and pressuring myself to work out intensively was a way to preserve what was left of a sense of self after too much disintegration, too soon. Once I got over that thirteen-year long struggle with eating disorders, the demons kept popping up, more subtly and covertly sabotaging intimacy, selfcare and creative opportunities potentially leading to a frightening visibility beyond the illusion of my grip on reality’s unfolding.
During this whole period, I also learned to be a keen observer of my own behavior, thoughts, feelings, and tendencies.
Self-awareness goes a long way but can equally be a shapeshifting disguise for a learned protection to keep the overview and to keep people at a controlled emotional distance.
With a growing sense of ease, I can appreciate the increasingly smooth self-awareness at the center of my intrinsic directive drives. What a conflictuous ride has it been.
And how insightful. Fragilities, I learned, are frustrated forces seeking passage through cracks of the dominant system.
Now….. I release emotional residues and, word by word, complicated, masking stories. Now, I am a witness more than an observer. A witness of a submission of the safety-seeking-self, giving to a lively fragility, stumbling in between my mind’s habituation to certain stories and my body’s growing, unveiled sensitivity. Identification with self-rejection is disintegrating, or so it appears now. Because, I laugh with a taste of softening irony, who am I to judge myself so harshly? This transformation, a release, comes with a welcome freeing of mental space to practice discernment instead of rejection. I long and practice truer kinds of intimacy nowadays thanks to guidance one can only find in reciprocal relationships and those beautiful, existentially rooted friends and mentors.
The force of self-directed judgment of course slipped through the cracks of the rather strong inhibition and oftentimes has made it hard for some of my loved ones to…rest in a form of commitment they surely deserve. I am learning to be straightforward when something feels off in a connection and practicing working it out together. The whole process has been going on for years, is rocky and ups and down are inevitably part of it.
The eating disorder that I once called a “monster”, which for so long had an imprisoning grip on my life through internalized anger, is now perceived as an object of my consciousness. Nothing that characterizes me, and no-thing that deserves my whole embodied power – the illusion of power it provided is released as such, making it possible for me to recognize it’s shadowy residues in subtle relational tendencies. Memories of the mental fixation are a reminder of our shared human vulnerability, bringing me closer to a sharp awareness of our psyche’s deep focus on survival. Something that teaches me, however strange this may sound, that underneath that demon is also a thirst for authenticity, a ‘daimon’ (term inspired by the Daimon Institute) waiting to be spirited with attunement, openness, and honesty.
Tenderness is the name of the game. Embracing complexity doesn’t stop on the surface my skin, I can project these perspectives inwards and let it ripple out in the reflections of non-judgmental, embodied awareness. Throughout all those years I surely see loads of manifestations of the person I am also today, and in different ways have always been. Caring, energetic, humorous, sensitive. And even those qualities, claimed as such, aren’t that important anymore – or at least loose localized emotional weight, becoming an orchestra of interconnection rather than something to proof in response to demanding uncertainties. Being lovable or loving enough isn’t the right motivation; love is being-here. I guess that, through the inner silence rising after the flood of emotional peaks, peace is entering the scene. Peace.
Wow, let me just sit with this for a moment. Peace. Before hasting towards an end goal, let me reverse the intensity of this feeling of gratefulness back into my body through conscious breathing. We will see what life brings, I feel responsive, but am not in charge, even if I definitely feel charged often enough...
Importantly, in here is a home for those demons enlightened to be the daimon they always feared they were. And, if they must roar to honor that life’s energy, let them, Lot. Inhabit, don’t inhibit your being.