Trinities Part One
So here’s the deal. The human psyche can be understood as a trinity, right? Superego, ego, id. Parent, adult, baby. Slim Shady, Eminem, Marshall Mathers. Purpose, pragmatism, pleasure. Anger, worry, hunger. Demigod, man, beast. Me, you, it.
The alcoholic husband in a blackout, the long suffering wife, the needy child.
Cire, Rice, Little Piggy.
Eric is not any of the three, nor any combination thereof. But Eric heretofore has manifested mostly as the first and the last.
Until about 15 or 16 years old, it was mostly just Little Piggy (LP, my Lower Power). LP had no sense whatsoever. He was the kid who raised his hand and said, “ooh ooh ooh, pick me! Pick me!” He was the kid who read book after book after book, and listened to the same record over and over. Later on, he was the kid who played games on the Apple IIE for 12 hours straight. He was the one who gave people things to make them like him. He was the one who pretended and pretended, well past the age when kids do that, well into young adulthood, imagining himself a wizard with magical powers. He was the kid who always wanted playtime, and never wanted anything but, until he felt bad, at which point he wanted mommy. Basically, he was a verbose toddler who, through the careful management of his loving parents, managed to get through school and chores and assorted kid responsibilities relatively unscathed.
Rice was there too. She was the one who worried. She’d worry and worry and worry over school assignments, and other things that Eric was supposed to do. But Eric was nowhere to be found, and LP was running the show.
“You’ve got to do that essay now! Please, just get started on it,” she’d proclaim.
“Just one more chapter of this wizards and dragons book,” LP would reply, and wave her away.
Cire started showing up every once in a while, maybe around 6th grade. After all, someone had to have those violent fantasies after LP had gotten bullied. But LP was scared of him. And Rice didn’t like risk. And Cire hadn’t grown legs yet, so he just kind of screamed from the dark recesses, and then went back to sleep.
And that’s how things remained, until about 16 years old. That’s when Cire’s legs were done. He popped out the womb of the psyche, and his first words were:
“Alright. Fuck this shit. I am in charge now.”