hell is here…

I haven’t been writing much. I haven’t been creating, I haven’t been making many trips to the well. It’s been a year since I went to the quarries, and possibly longer since I went to my big, black chromium mine. I haven’t been back to the desert or New Orleans or Savannah since the fall, though I did spend two weeks at sea in January, which is better than nothing. But all in all, it’s been a while since I’ve done much of anything other than commune with demons.

They are around me all the time these days, in my head and in my heart. They’ve torn me open and put my insides on display on facebook and on stage. They’ve left me so marred that, at times, that I’m no longer recognizable to my closest friends and family. They toy with me as though all the years I’ve spent writing about strength and power and personal responsibility have meant nothing. They show me what it is to feel whole, then rip me in half. They fill me with a sense of faith and belief, then drain me until there is nothing left. They give me prophecy, then make me painfully aware that I know nothing. Who knew demons could be so very Zen? For me they have embodied everything and nothing.

I hate them.

I can’t imagine my world without them.

To be sure, I have not become a zealot, or a newly-religious girl. This has nothing to do with Hell or Satan or any other fairy tales other than the ones I am made of. To be sure, this is what happens when you are not true to yourself, when you fight the things that linger in your heart, when you lie to yourself about fear and pain. These are the doors you open, and when you do, you invite all manner of creature in. And goddamn, do they ever come in. They come like a fucking army, like a flood.

But the doors are open, the wounds that I carelessly stitched up years ago are open, and my heart -such as it is- is open. I’m letting them in, letting them through, to do their worst. Because I know it’s the only way I will ever be unafraid. It’s the only way I will heal.

The only way out is through.

And if my flood took you down, I can only tell you how sorry I am, and that it took me down, too. The sea that remains is deep and rough, it is filled with loss and demons and monsters and myth, but it will teach us to be strong. It will teach us what to fear and what to disregard. It will teach us what matters and what means very little.

My demons are teaching me, and though the lessons are ugly and brutal, they are lessons still, and I will listen.

I will learn.

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