My dad used to say all cars ran on infernal combustion engines. A good pun, but there’s something there. The image of a solid core of black that roars and drips searing metal flame – an engine of hate captured and directed by fine engineering. A machine that puts dark energy to use.
That’s an image I cling to now. It’s not the worst feeling, the sensation of mindless animal rage tempered only by training, awareness and willpower. It’s good to feel. But it’s a feeling I fear nonetheless.
See, at this stage I could go either way:
- The engine could still sputter out, bereft of the loathing of living that is its fuel before it does any real damage. When it stops, I can resume normality, possessing a mind clear free of the misanthropic fumes.
- Or it could have fuel enough to bore a hole in my psyche into the vacuum of true depression, sucking emotion and motivation out into the darkness before it too is silenced.
I fear it because I have no control over it. Even with all the mindfulness exercises and CBT, I’m still barely in the driver’s seat. I’m just going through the motions and trying to keep things on track. Politeness isn’t always an option, but nobody’s getting hurt.
So maybe that’s enough.