Do Not Feed The Inner Demons

Nourish The Nice Guy

Remember the last time
you were arm-flailing, howling,
lemme-break-something, mad?
Imagine for a minute, just for
the sake of argument, and as a
case for continuing to read this
post, that what emerged in this
angry flash dance was not only
the precipitating event that
popped your inner cork, but also
the past unresolved remnants of
a thoroughly frustrated 2-year-old
who was the subject of parental
mindlessness or sibling meanness.
Or if you have a cosmic bent,
you might imagine that karma
kicked you into that brief and
unseemly boot-the-cat cruelty.
As a farther out but not final
option, and to appease a broader
reader base, you might consider
demon possession.

Now before you out-of-hand dismiss the far out option, stop
and consider for a moment the whole "addiction" thing; the obsessive-
compulsive urges that are the subject and raison d'etre for
everything from silly to seriously warped support groups, endless
therapy sessions, 7,8,9,10,11 and 12-step programs, and encounter
bats; not to mention for more than a passing provocative phrase, the
mountain of heavy drugs that are prescribed daily for the panoply
of "nobody really knows what causes….".

If you "can't help it", and these uncontrollable urges just
overtake you, then demon possession is not that outrageous a
consideration. Of course, those who are in line for treatment for
addiction could subscribe to Mark Twain's take, "Addiction is just
something you just don't want to give up," take personal
responsibility and fess up to the fact that they really could just
quit if they really, really wanted to quit - whatever it is that has
them….ummm, interested. But let us not apply that kind of pressure
this soon. Let's entertain the demon model:

In biblical days, or at least in the way King James'
scholars later chose to translate the original Aramaic, "demon
possession" was as in vogue with the priests as prescription drugs
and electroshock are with the contemporary medical priesthood. You
don't hear a lot about exorcism these days, other than from
Hollywood, but it still hangs out in the dusty canon laws as a
spirit of religiosity, a lady in waiting for the mega melodramatic.

So, let us meet our demons. Before we begin the tour, please
pay attention to the flight attendants and the bold sign they are
holding up for you to read. If you cannot read them, a flight
attendant will shout them in your ears. For those who have eyes to
see, the signs read: DO NOT FEED THE INNER DEMONS. If you approach
20/20 vision, with or without your prescribed lenses, you will note
a subtitle in a somewhat smaller font, but with no less an important
bit of additional advise: Nourish The Nice Guy.

Demon Number One

Ah, wait a minute. This could go on to novella length. Let's
dump all the demons into one category: The Bad Guys. You know them,
and you don't like them. But you feed them all the time. OK, not all
the time, but often. Why is that? You can't be still pissed off
about a sandbox grab of your Tonka Toy. Karma? Whew, that's a tough
one to tussle with. Oh, right! Demons. All those
miserable "feelings", all that wrestling with reality, all that hurt
and disappointment, sadness, anger, greed, selfishness,
thoughtlessness, that demon lust that lurks lasciviously at every
office water cooler, and whacks us with a 50% plus divorce rate,
financial stress, relationship stress, job stress, school stress,
and stress and stress, on and on. Season to taste with whatever
other miserable states of mind you invite in, entertain, and feed.
What was the question?

Question: Why would you feed them?

Answer: (Are you sitting down?) Because you LIKE them! Anyway, you
like the result. You end up feeling sorry for yourself. (Of course,
not until after your sorrowful acts of contrition and a dozen or so
double shots of apologies).

You love feeling sorry for yourself. That one is the
sneakiest one of the bunch. It's a parasite that rides sidecar with
every Bad Guy biker in the miserable lot. Feeling sorry for yourself
is the flower in the Little Shop of Horrors. Feed me! No? Think
about it. You lash out. You lust out. Then you feel bad. Then you
feel sorry…for yourself! Sure you regret hurting others, but the
focus is "It's All About Me." And every time you replay your bad
deed, you serve up another gourmet meal for this demon.

To stay with the biblical thing, you know how Lucifer was
considered one of the young turks, loaded with potential, one of the
best and the brightest, right? Well, this is Big L in action.
Clever, man! He (let's use an anthropomorphic image of a Bad Guy)
will come up with an endless array of end runs to get a meal. And
you're a galley slave! If he can provoke anger…you know the list;
mine and yours, that will eventually lead to you feeling sorry for
yourself. If your feel-sorry-for-myself quotient is low, you'll
sabotage a job, a relationship, a check book, a sober chip, whatever
it takes to fire up the grill for the next meal of self pity. And
it's just a matter of time before you bring on the main course and
muscle that demon up for the next match; which you will lose every
time. That is, unless you…

Nourish The Nice Guy

Now how hard could that be? Just be nice. Thing nice
thoughts. But in a matter of minutes after your resolve, some
asshole cuts you off in traffic. And there's old Sidecar Lucy (let's
give this demon a female persona as well, for the sake of equality)
smiling, batting her eyes, licking her lips. Here we go. Road rage
is on the game board. Supersize that next self-pity meal, loser.
You're in jail for reckless endangerment. Or if your up for the big
table or the big house, vehicular manslaughter.

Hang on. There is a way to escape this drama, end the loop,
square the deal. You ready? Learn to meditate. Find an authentic
meditation teacher. Learn the healing power and sustenance of
silence.

Jeff