Personal daemon?

Yes, dear, this is a negative parasitic, an external/outsider power which works within your soul, puts decisions against your common sense, creates your painful situations whilst you obey paralyzed as a sleepwalker.

Life turns to a nightmare and you represent the extraneous will faithfully.

If you are a believer the word "daemon" will be familiar, if not, just imagine a software virus, a malicious trojan program which overwrites your willpower.

Many of us have our weaker or stronger daemons.

It's not easy to recognise and join battle with them... and hard to win.

May I tell my own story?

My own family-daemon ruled me and I helped it to ruin my whole life.

Fifty five years! It took fifty five years when I realised, that I'm manipulated by an inner parasitic.

Meditation is the keyword.

Meditation began to open my eyes.

I'm lucky. I got an intuition which led me and the appropriate help had arrived.

C.G. Jung was my first shocking read.

Then I found an other psychiatrist, Eric Berne's book of transactional analysis - "Games People Play"

selfdefinition.org/psychology/Eric%20Berne%20-%20Games%20People%20Play.pdf

- and "What Do You Say After You Say Hello?"

then Susan Forwad's "Toxic Parents" -

www.carovnezrcadlo.cz/TOXIC-PARENTS.pdf

and Hungarian lectures about "inheritable" family ego games, which rule generations' lifetime.

Studying these revolutional readings a healthy rebellion came alive in my soul.

An awakening took place within me. Day by day I became stronger and stronger and once - after about two years - I was ready to face my darkest pains. To dig deep, explore, analyse, to understand the causes which led to my catastrophic personal failures.

***

"I have told to your father, that I am feeling very well without a child. I didn't want you, only he was insisting. But at the end he also told 'oh, how I wish, I could undo' "

Still I hear my mother's voice. She didn't forget to remind me from time to time, during our forty-five years common life.

To remind me, that how needless am I, how huge was her sacrifice, when gave birth to an unwished child. As a martyr, she drew along her motherhood's cross and was punishing me endlessly.

After my mystic deadly birth I became to a strange child. As if I was living in more realities at the same time. Borders disappeared, queer pictures came alive in my mind. Questions of life and death were my everyday themes. I was hungry for understanding, tried to share my thoughts with my mother.

"Insane" - was her judgement. "I don't used to think, and you too shouldn't do it!"

Yes, dear, I already don't blame her.

She was just weak. Wished to get a helpless, smiling pink doll, but got a tiny, earnest thinker. Even I, myself nor couldn't explain my strange experiences. It took a long time to realise, that I often live through other people's emotions - mostly my Dad's Holocaust experience! - and my own previous life - previous death! - memories.

I needed my mother's comprehension desperately, but only "Shame on you! Shame on you!" was my "honourable mention".

"Stinking kid" - this became my nickname.

No caressing, no cuddling, no embrace.

To avoid the touch my mother wore rubber gloves when she had to wash my hair. Pulled it, I squealed, then got a new punishment because of my protest.

Soon I learned not to ask for help.

I learned that the single way to avoid a newer penalty to keep quiet, and solve all my troubles alone.

At my eight/nine our old sewing machine was my greatest challenge. To sew clothes for my dolls - it was a joyful activity. One afternoon, as I was trampling on the sewing machine's pedal, my finger got dangerously close to the thick steel needle and it broke into my fingernail.

First I just stared at my hand, then the recognition striked me, as a lightning.

To unmake the machine, to break an expensive needle - it was one of the main sins.

My mother should not have to know this!

She was sleeping two metres behind my back.

I searched for a suitable tool silently, and pulled the broken needle out of my finger with a pliers.

Oh, how I relieved!

Thankfully I already knew how to exchange the needle. I repeared the machine and prayed to my hand not to bleed strinkingly.

Whatever has happened I had to keep the secret. I knew, if it would turn out, I would come off badly again.

Yes, it was not easy... to learn, that I'm alone, permanently, there is no help.

In my childhood it was the fear, what I had to learn first. At the mercy of a whimsical outside world I never could know the next strike. There was no guarantee, there was no safety, my life happened randomly.

Only my sinfulness was the single certainty and the continuous punishment.

Often the causes remained hidden, but the upshot was clear - the beating.

It was enough to hear a gossip, a wicked comment to start the avalanche. My mother's anger was overwhelming. She cried, cursed the "stinking kid" and my weak, deadly sick Dad obeyed.

He became the executioner - and beat me thoroughly.

My mother was sure, that always and everything is about her. The whole world was her enemy, but the most dangerous - was me.

My uncountable childhood illnesses were, like a red rag to a bull. The "stinky kid" became ill to peeve her suffering mother.

I never forget the scene... in my six the umpteenth putrid sore throat ended in a endocarditis and pericarditis. In a lent stroller I was pushed to the near health centre daily - it was not allowed me to move - to get penicillin injections. Lying on the high medical examination table I howled as I could, desperately. At last my Dad helped the nurse to hold down my tortured body.

I never forget the scene... my mother's scandalized face, as she was drawing far aside from me. As she was far in soul, wished to move away physically too.

My defenselessness couldn't touched her. She stood in deep shame because of my agonized crying, scared - what will people say hearing my screams.

Three steps distance.

She always kept three steps distance.

Hated me, because I disturbed her irresponsible life, moreover, I often became sick.

Yes, it was not easy to learn, that the person, whose task would have been to care of me, that person caused my wounds.

Yes, I never could be good enough.

A first cousin of mine became the favourite. My mother admired, praised her. I was beaten in the comparison always. The "stinking kid" status crept under my skin permanently.

My school successes, my excellent certificates may not have reached up to the cousin's high heels, clothes, jewels, hairstyles.

I felt an unspeakable turmoil.

My parents' ideas regarding to values, were contrary and I felt my dreamer, floating Dad's gentle belief much more closer to me, than my mother's violent will and money-grubbing.

After my Dad's death I remained tragically alone.

From my early childhood I did everything to meet my mother's expectations.

I believed her unconditionally, she was the middle of my universe, her opinion was the basic of my self-esteem. As a little girl I saw myself by her eyes. Seeing her hate I was deeply sorrowful. This loveless rejection convinced me of my ugliness, my worthlessness, my uselessness.

As years went by slowly I have learned to watch my own person across my mother's judgments.

I have learned to hate myself!

Oh, how I wished to get a good word from her!

Secretly I hoped, that seeing my self-hatred she will value my loyalty.

For her sake I began to loathe myself, and offered her my dire sacrifice, but she didn't love me, moreover, my weakness motivated her to new harming.

To kick the weak again, though she/he is already lying on the ground! - her belief didn't contain mercy.

Yes, I already know the sick madness of our painful relationship, but in my childhood I was confused completely.

Yes, dear, you see well.

I, myself, planted the destroying "daemon" into my own soul voluntarily!

My mother's wrecking judgments began to work within me, as if they were my own thoughts, as if this pejorative scorn was my own opinion.

And this parasitic judgement took over the power of my adult life.

I knew, surely knew my worthlessness, so, I searched partners who hated me by my own daemon's expectation. On the day of my first wedding my mother cursed me by the sake of farewell.

"This marriage won't be long lived, I do hope, that time certifies my words."

Yes, time did.

After my first alcoholic husband raped me, beat me, cheated on me - we divorced and I stayed alone with my two little sons.

Oh, no, don't you think, dear, that this lesson was enough for me.

No!

My daemon demanded continuity.

My second alcoholic husband simply hated me. He was as aggressive with my elder sons, as with his two own children. Murder was amongst the life roles. Sharp, long knives were his favourite toys. After our marriage's first years he got boy lovers and lived bisexually. Hellish years came, that led to his suicide.

To become widow in my age of 38, stay with my four sons and bring them up alone, to put the world's judgment on myself, to carry more and more heavier burdens, to hunt for endless suffering - yes, my daemon was satisfied.

And no - the reply to your unspoken question, my dear, the answer is - No!

My mother didn't value my sacrifice, she never venerated my personality, not even one single appreciative word never could be uttered by her.

Her last sentence echoes indelibly in my ears.

Lost, somewhere in the depth of dementia, a confused, fragmented soul cursed me for the last time.

"I am your child! You must look after me! Shame on you. I am very disappointed on you. I thought, you are better than others, but I see, you don't."

Struck down, I cried stunned.

My mother's body was still alive, but, there was emptiness inside.

The understanding took more than fifty years.

And now, dear, we arrived to the most important part!

Now I stir you up.

Rebellion guarantees your surviving.

Just watch, we'll demolish the two-tongued ancient prejudices.

The Holy Bible says "Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord, your God is giving you." Exodus 20:12

But where is the commandment - Honor your own child?!

Where is the teaching of parents' responsibility?

Where is the message about maternal love?

No, dear!

Don't venerate authority automatically. One's prestige must be deserved.

You don't have to honor a bad, wicked parent.

You don't have to honor a loveless, malignant mother.

Your parents are responsible for you - and not you are responsible for them!

Your parents were adult when you, the weak, little human being arrived to them.

Nothing authorizes parents to hate their own, little child.

Nothing legitimates differentiation, neglect, physical and psychical abuse.

You are not sinner.

No, dear, you are the victim and you deserve the truth.

The truth, which heals and liberates you.

A long, painful road led me to my current self.

Months of tearful reminiscence brought exemption, relief and peace.

Heavy suppressions became freed.

The day, when I caught sight of my mother's inner realm - that day was the turning point. Ten years after her death I began to communicate with her suffering, painful, real soul.

I'm lucky.

I already have heard the most important family stories and an older kin of mine helped in remembering.

I realised, that my mother never grew up. She was an aggrieved, wounded ten years old child.

Forced for motherhood, it meant her to give birth to a rival.

Yes, now I feel with her, I see her pain... her mother - my grandma - hated her... and her mother - my great-grandma - hated my grandma... and so on, so on, so on...

She just was not able to step over her own shadow.

Generations suffered from this mother-daughter ego game, generations poisoned each other's life.

Wicked mothers' generations brought up generations of wicked mothers... and before me, no one could broke the chain.

Our human thinking is too little for being generously unselfish. To rise up, to think on a higher spiritual level - this gift was written in my life lesson.

Thank you, Lord!

I'm grateful for my sons. The maternal love was my life buoy.

I simply love them, and they love me. Only this is the secret of motherhood.

This silent love infiltrated into my soul and slowly I began to love myself.

Be sure, dear, though the daemon defends itself, when self-love appears in your heart - it escapes, that minute.

You deserve self-love.

You are not equal with the judgement, which was put on you by your suffering, painful parents.

You are God's - the Universe's - precious child.

Sweep out that daemon bravely.

No need for it.

Only you, alone, your liberated, peaceful self can live that wonderful, happy life, which is given to you.