When someone escalates to hurling the words “I feel suicidal” as a grenade into the space, what does the village do?
Do you diagnose, analyse the Kamikaze pilot mid-descent, apply a theory—This is your Gremlin—and step back from the fire?
Do you exile your anger to the swamp using your Persecutor, believing separation or distancing is wisdom?
Do you summon your Rescuer, armoured in good intentions, so you don’t have to feel the raw animal fear in your own chest?
Do you become the Victim, with shrapnel in your nervous system, where your mixed-emotion-fueled-helplessness and powerlessness feels like the truth?
Do you bargain—softly, urgently—inviting a false adaptive promise that the other won’t hurt themselves, a fragile treaty written and glued with fear?
Or do you let your Gremlin take the wheel, speaking from high ground and certainty:
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