I continue to be attacked at night by demons from time to time. I experimented a good long while with one last night and they really dont like the word love. Love is their krytonite.
I say this as a practical observation. I am still not particularly loving myself, outside of my children. I aspire to it, but I intend something more substantial than the plastic substitute usually intended (so it seems to me) by the people who use this word nearly reflexively. True love is the perfection of self. It is the result of complete maturation.
In important respects, it is the final conquering of chronic fear.