Wednesday. A friend asked me in an email to describe my demons. Demons. Give me an example of a demon, I asked. No, she replied. Come up with a list.
I realized what she meant. If I were asked to guess at what I thought might be one of her demons, and I do suspect she has demons, I really couldn't answer. Demons, the things that make you scared, she replied. Scared. Things that make me scared.
Ask for suggestions in your journal, she suggested, which means to me that demons can be identified in what I write. Things I'm scared of that are suggested if not explicitly stated. Things that make me afraid when confronted, that can be inferred from my babble. I don't think she means demons as in “I don't like heights”, as in climbing ladders or hanging over the railing on the Eiffel tower. In conquering a fear of heights you might be addressing demons, I suppose, but demons down inside who use vertigo as camouflage. “Fear of flying”, maybe? Run whenever a lady turns serious, I suggested. No, she said, that wasn't it. Demons. Things that make you afraid.
Well, I'm not sure. I've been concerned more than once when death has passed by, a not so gentle reminder that one day we have an appointment. Not today, I hope. I have no demons? Seems unlikely. I wouldn't believe someone who'd say that with conviction. The embarrassment here isn't in not being able to identify my demons by name, assuming I have them and I assume I do, but in the embarrassing admission that right now, right here, I can't.