I am grateful for Smaug.

Smaug, the dragonification of my depression and panic disorder. Not quite a year ago I faced a Balroc in a deep cave in the mines of Moria. For those of you who have neither read nor seen the Lord of the Rings trilogy, this will not make sense. Suffice it to say, I faced a large monster who lived in a deep, dark hole in the ground. When I turned to face it, I was standing on solid ground and thought I had sufficient weapons at my disposal with which to conquer the monster. But the ground crumbled from underneath my feet and my weapons proved fruitless. Like Gandalf in the scene from Lord of the Rings, it appeared that I had beaten the Balroc, but at the last moment, he pulled me down with him. Down into a freefall for months.

I am deeply afraid of heights. More accurately I am afraid of falling. When I approach the edge of a great precipice I have the sensation that gravity will cease to function and I will spin into space falling off the edge and down into the abyss. This is particularly problematic when we have cheap seats in large colosseums. We cannot take our seats until the seats in front of us have been sufficiently filled so that I do not feel as though I might suddenly become airborn. Believe me, I know this sounds completely ridiculous. The LightChildren and I joke about it, yet I can’t quite overcome the sensation. They both know that any foolish notions they have about bungey jumping or hang gliding or parachuting out of an airplane had best be done without their mother’s knowledge … after they are 18. Preferably after her death. There is every chance that the knowledge will cause her death. Or immediate heart failure.

The sense of freefalling was horrible.

Then, I lived. It was amazing. But I lived. I’ve come to learn a few things about things. Falling doesn’t kill me. It’s the hard stop at the end. That’s not really as silly as it sounds. Unless I really am actually falling, I don’t need to worry about it. I won’t get hurt. Virtual falling will just sort of end.

Another thing I’ve come to learn is that I live life like an amoeba. My walls are quite permeable. But I am deeply uncomfortable with that. I don’t know how to say, “No. That won’t work for me.” and make it stick, without causing all sorts of rumpus in someone else. I watch men do this all the time. They get asked to do something. They consider it. No, they decide, it won’t work for them. So they tell their questioner, “Sorry, that won’t work for me.” And the questioner moves along.

I read these words the other day and even posted them because they were so dangerous and beautiful … I’ve been re-reading them and allowing them to soak into my soul. I’ve been creeping around Smaug’s cave lately. The stench from his nostrils has been enveloping me and making it difficult for me to see clearly. I can not find the exit from the cave anymore. It stinks in here and I think I’m dying alone and in the dark.

When people want someting of me that I do not want to give, I react. React with aversion and anxiety; words like, “flight,” “get out of my inner sanctum” and more visceral feelings difficult to name rise up, and I fight the old crap within me that hinders me from calmly setting boundaries without feeling awry and dismayed, gruilty or angry for having to set them at all. I instinctively push people away when I feel they want something from me that I am not comfortable sharing or giving, when I feel their emotions, desires or needs intrude on my psychological space. Peace is disrupted and I am furious; how could so-and-so dare disrupt my peace with their feelings or perceived needs that conflict with my feelings and perceived needs? I become more angry over the disrupton of peace than whatever substantive issue triggered my internal dissonance in the first place. And then the self-hatred for being so easily thrown off course, for not being enlightened or spiritual enough to be what I intellectually understand.