Even a nice girl like me has someone or something lurking in her closet.  And no matter how strong you pretend to be, or how many people tell you what a great person you are, one of these days you're going to have to open that closet and stare Koschei down.

I'm pretty lucky, all things considered. I'm strong, and I've known love and joy that sustained me, and I've won a lot of tough battles and gotten the better of my enemies and myself.  My closet isn't crammed with cringing memories of lovers gone awry, or skeletons, or things I wish I hadn't done, or people I wish I hadn't been.  But Koschei's there, all the time, pale as a dust, as shadowy as hate, waiting and starving, lurking until somebody feeds him.

I bet you've met him, one time or other.  I bet you'd recognize him.  He's pitiful in the dark, it's tempting to feed him and water him and let him grow, but I have to tell you, do it once and he'll feed on YOU forever-getting him back in chains in that closet is damn near impossible. 

I first glimpsed him when I saw my mother staring at him.  Just a little blank look she had, momentarily, on bad days in California, or in February, the longest month.  I've seen her shake herself and shove him back into the closet, year after year after year.  I saw some friends stare him down, and others stave him off, and one or two, men and women, embraced him and the sweet taste of midnight and the promise of Nothingness he offered them like wine.  Still others pass by him, walk right through him without realizing he's there, careless as the stars and breeze.

I first met him in grad school, when he called me names.  Useless. Hopeless. Stupid. Trapped. Faithless.  Lost.  I fought him off by working from 5-6, and saving the world, and avoiding those moments of stillness when dissipating into the stuff of stars held a certain charm. I found people who kept me busy with their sudden, messy, gorgeous children.  My lover and my friends took up the fight when I was tired. Eventually, I thought I'd put him away for good, and I left him in his closet to starve while I went to find BAba Yaga and wear out just a few pairs of iron shoes.

The next time I met him, we shook hands and he grinned, a smile as white and blank and inhuman as a hospital wall, eyes red as 6 weeks of blood, hair as dry as the straw of October, brittle as skin after a long illness.  Bastard. 

For three years he'd hang around the house, with his soft promises and harsh criticism and stench of failure.  For three years I prayed not to be angry anymore- which must have been pretty funny to Someone, because one day I really DID get mad, and it was the only way I managed to have any enrgy to stuff him back into his oubliette.

The thing is, after he's been your guest for a while, even after you kick him out or shackle him, there's such an awful mess left over, and such a lot of housekeeping to make up for that it's godawful tempting just to let him loose again, and sink into the uneasy excuse of his company.  It's the path of least resistance, flotsam and jetsam, and what's so bad about Nothing anyway?  It's quiet, and it would certainly take a little of this goddamned pressure off, wouldn't it?

It wouldn't.  So this is how we fight him off.  Because, when it comes to Koschei, wielding words works a little bit better for me than wielding swords.  Welcome to the battleground.

12:23:41 AM