The Dark Parts

Where some of the nasties need to go…


“You’re not suicidal,” he said, “It’s like there’s a murderer inside your body.  The way you feel.  The esteem you don’t have.  The cuts.  The victim is you.”

I felt my stomach clench and my jaw tighten.  Anything to keep my eyes dry.

He continued,  ”My therapist thinks we have a similar dark side.”

Screw your therapist, I thought. What a horrid thing to say to someone.

“I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“Wait, wait, wait,”  I cut in, “You talked to your therapist about me?”

What  I didn’t say was:   It does make me uncomfortable.  In a way I need.  A way that clicks.

He said,  ”I’ve been thinking about you.  Nice shirt by the way.”

And then he was gone.


What does that nameless man do all the time when I am well?   Why is he there?   What did he protect?   Something from my childhood?

Who else is in here with him?   I’m not going all Sybil on anyone, but if we can compartmentalize parts of ourselves into personified pieces, then who is within?

A murderer.  A saint?   A seer?

I have within me so many facets.   I’ve forgotten lately to give them worth.  To give them faces.  To give them a name.

That empathetic man who is the best listener you have every met…he’s in there.

The stand up comic.   He’s there too.

We need to name these parts or, at the very least, recognize them. Give them their due in order to find out why they were there in the first place.



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