I heard this once in a writer’s group. I can’t remember who said it originally. There is probably some truth to it. It’s one of those dark humor coping skills, I suppose.
Often, I think of my own childhood. There were some good moments, but there was plenty of bad. I have no memories of my parents being affectionate. And actually, most of my early childhood memories revolve around my parents fighting–lots of yelling. I absolutely hated it. It eventually led to me retreating into my own fantasy world which I eventually began to write about. Or even running away–escaping from the house and heading for the forest. I remember being terrified of my beloved woods during the night. Dark made it nearly unrecognizable, the shadows made it so much more difficult to navigate, which made it truly frightening. But it was better than being at home and being trapped.
To go even deeper into part of my childhood that possibly turned me into the writer that I am today, I’m going to bring up The Tale of Two Wolves.
You know, the Cherokee legend about feeding one of two wolves battling for supremacy inside of you. If you haven’t, here it is:
I think I first heard about it somewhere between 5-10 years ago. And superficially, it’s a nice legend–but I feel like there’s so much more to each wolf.
So on nights when my parents would fight and I was too afraid to go outside, I’d sit on my bedroom floor, hug my legs and close my eyes tight. I’d envision them fighting and then do something that–looking back–I think is kinda strange. I’m yet to touch the topic with a therapist so maybe this is a normal behavior for kids dealing with fighting parents.
But I would envision my parents fighting and take a mental photo of it. And then I would imagine this massive black wolf grabbing hold of the photo and ripping it to shreds. I reveled in it, feeling satisfaction with each little piece of photo that fell from the jaws of that black wolf. I would take more mental photos as the fighting continued–intensifying–and feed it to that wolf in a frenzy. Photo after photo was destroyed. Night after night I depended on my black wolf for comfort. Until my mom left and the fighting stopped. But that wasn’t the end. Black wolf would return later in my teenage years during more episodes of trauma.
Why a black wolf, I have no idea? I was probably about ten years old the first time I did this mental exercise. And at the time, I loved hyenas and dinosaurs (Lion King circa 1994 and Jurassic Park). Now, as an adult, I love wolves, especially black wolves. Once I started writing about my fantasy world, one of my secondary characters originated from the black wolf of my childhood. Becoming a character I always referred to as my “bad-ass black wolf.”
Going back to The Tale of Two Wolves–I feel like it’s not so black and white. Especially in my case and possibly many like me. And since I’d often see the black wolf being treated as the evil wolf, I didn’t like it. Once upon a time, my black wolf saved my psyche. Sure it represents many stereotypical bad things–ego, anger, etc–which are not inherently bad or evil traits.The idea of feeding one representation of emotions over the other makes me think a person would become unbalanced. Sometimes we need to feed the black wolf if only to tame it. Because in that bristling, bellicose, bad-ass black wolf, ten-year-old me found a friend who loved to shred bad-memory-photographs.
enlightened wolf 