[ WP ] A psychologist has to defeat his patient 's inner demons . Literally .

I've heard a lot of names for it over the years. Body and soul was popular in more religious times. Yin and yang had a foreign flavor that some folk liked. Conscious and subconscious had an academic following. In and out, right and left, head and heart… They all boil down to the same basic idea. 
 
 People are divided. 
 
 We're naturally conflicted creatures, pre-wired towards dissatisfaction and ambiguity. It comes with being a little too clever for our own good. You never see an alligator get upset over her life circumstances, but humans do, and that's usually a good thing. 
 
 Conflict promotes development. A little pushback keeps life interesting. It makes us strive a little harder and shine a little more brightly. With the proper mindset, one can learn to welcome the struggle of life as an athlete welcomes the pain of a performance. 
 
 But that sort of mindset is n't always possible. What happens to a boy that watches his parents die? Does he fight through his inner turmoil and become Batman? Does he raise his head high and swear that such injustice will not be? 
 
 No. He does n't. 
 
 He suffers. He drowns in it. His entire existence becomes defined by loss, and it warps him. Even if he appears normal from the outside, his inside will always be scarred. His pain, his demons, will manifest in his relation to the world. They show themselves in how he loves and how he hates. They walk in his footprints, ever ready to prey on his weakness and pervert it into cruelty. Worse yet, the demons wear his face, because he thinks he is his wounds. 
 
 He is not. 
 
 I see them crouched over his slumbering body on the patient couch. They think I ca n't see them. Few can. It takes a keen eye and an over-imaginative mind. I continue to draw them on my notepad. 
 
 They are ugly things, full of wrong angles and broken lines. They are supposed to be ugly. The pretty ones, the ones we mistake for angels, are the worse. Hell hath no fury like a self-righteous martyr. 
 
 I can see them but I ca n't touch them, just as they ca n't touch me. So I call my personal demons forth. 
 
 They too are ugly. Each is a faceless mask of poorly painted brush strokes. I look in one and see my pride, the arrogance of a Ph.D. I look in another and see my mother's disappointment when she paid my bail, decades ago. They are my demons, but they do not wear my face, and they bow to my will. 
 
 A little conflict is good, after all. 
 
 The boy's demons take notice. They raise stolen eyes at my minions. Some sneer, some cower, some twist the boy's face into an angry snarl. 
 
 My demons walk calmly, precisely towards them. Some they scold, some they comfort, and some they dismantle. It is n't the chaotic frenzy of battle. It is long, exhausting surgery on an uncooperative patient. Occasionally, one of mine tries to break free of its restraints. It's simply the nature of a demon to want to rend, both the boy and myself. I place it back in check with a firm thought. 
 
 The boy gradually blinks his eyes awake. Our demons fade into mist and ink, to fight again another day. Few wars are won in a day. 
 
 “ Sorry doctor, did n't mean to fall asleep again. ” 
 
 I smile reassuringly and begin the other half of my job.
