Afraid of the dark

 A year ago, I wrote a post about how as a kid I was convinced that I was possessed by the devil. I talked about the very first moment that I became afraid.

One of my earliest memories is of playing hide-and-seek at Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer. I was lying in the dark under the bed with my face pressed down into the red shag carpet. Waiting. There were dusty shoe boxes and plastic-wrapped blankets stacked all around me. I felt like they were waiting too, for the sunlight, for someone to open them again. Like most children, I was patient only when it came to hiding games, and I was willing to lie there all night, if need be, for someone to find me. I put my hands over my eyes and pushed down on my eye balls. When I lifted the pressure, the space in front of me exploded with imaginary fireworks. I pressed down harder, and harder, until suddenly I thought that maybe I could see a set of eyes. They were big and round and silver and stared right back at me unblinking, like an owl. Completely forgetting the game, I wriggled out from under the bed and went charging down the hall into the kitchen.

“Gramma! When I hide under the bed, I can see an owl’s eyes looking at me!”

Grandma looked up from the dishes with concern on her face. Grandpa, who was sitting at the kitchen table while Grandma cleaned, ordered me to come and stand before him.

 “What did you see?”

“Owl Eyes!” I laughed. “Big round silver ones! Under the bed when I close my eyes!”

I don’t remember what he said next, but I remember my excitement went suddenly cold. Grandpa was not happy. He asked me lots of questions, and before long, Grandma dried off her hands and came to sit with us at the table. They laid their hands on my head and prayed. Grandpa rebuked Satan in the name of Jesus and Grandma whispered “yes Lord” under her breath again and again.

I used to look back on that day as the moment when Satan entered my body.

 

I am sometimes afraid that if I ever become a parent I wont know how to address situations like this. When someone talks about seeing things in the dark, my automatic thought is that it MUST be demons. (Which is ridiculous since I don’t believe in demons.)  But I get uncomfortable and nervous none the less. I was wondering what I would do if my hypothetical child came to me about seeing things in the dark. As I browsed the comments, I came across one from Shadowspring that brought a huge smile to my face.

“Horrifying. You poor princess. I just want to pick up that little girl that saw owl eyes and go rewrite that whole story.

Would I be smart enough to figure out exactly what you had experienced? Probably not, but we could've put treats out for the owl, gone to library for owl books (including Winnie the Pooh), made up a series of owl adventures and/or even had a field trip to the raptor center. That's the kind of grandma I want to be.

I bet your grandparents would cry if they knew that religious freak-out was the beginning of so much pain for you. At least, I hope they would.

Hugs, SS”

 

 As an agnostic, I no longer believe in dark, powerful demons that can harm and hurt you at will. I have no reason to be afraid for myself or my hypothetical children. Thanks, SS for the sweet comment. I know someday I'll think of you when my children come to me afraid of the dark. I know i will honestly be able to say "there is nothing to fear."

Battling Depression

Anyone who has ever struggled with depression or addiction knows whats it's like to have that voice of oposition in your head. You fight against it every day just to stay sane. It pushes you towards that bottle, or away from your friends, or into the arms of you drug. I refer to this inner nemesis as "My Enemy." She is not a physical being. She is not the demon i always thought she was. She is simply everything in me that is wounded and broken. She is my depression. She is the voice of my past abuse. She is my self hatred, and she will do whatever it takes to keep me here alone.

My Enemy had built entire cities in my mind long before I learned that she was there. She used to run up and down the synapses in my brain, shouting and screaming in a voice just like mine. I thought she was me. I trusted my own voice. For so long time I thought that the things she said were true.

She used to scream at me for eating that extra cookie. She cheered me on every time I cut my wrists, and I secretly hoped I would cut too deep. She had me thoroughly convinced that I was ugly, and stupid, and awkward. She could say anything she wanted and I would eat it up, take it to heart, memorize it…. My Enemy owned me back then.

About a year ago, I was newly married, working two jobs, and trying to fit in in a new city. My enemy capitalized on my stressed body. She grew stronger than ever before. Vividly I remember that chocolate cupcake. I made it myself, with mounds of vanilla butter cream frosting. I had one with my friends, but when they left I couldn’t stop thinking about the last cupcake. My Enemy whispered that Husband would never know who ate it. “You could have it and be done. You know you want to!” But as soon as I took that first bite, her voice grew angry, disgusted, and ferocious. I ate the whole thing in three huge bites, with tears of shame pouring down face. The cupcake churned in my stomach and my Enemy churned in my mind. Before I knew what was happening I was crouching over the toilet, straining, retching, vomiting every last drop out of my stomach.

I sat on the floor outside the bathroom, hugging my knees and staring into the growing darkness. I was scared. I had promised myself I would never do that. I didn’t want to turn out like my aunt, with boney fingers chapped from the back of her throat. My Enemy promised me that it would all be okay. “This is the start of something great for you!” she promised. She showed me pictures of a thinner me. She showed me how easy it would be. No more guilt, no more consequences! The images faded to one my aunt....

 ...I was 11 years old, at a birthday party. I climbed up on the roof of our house to suprise my cousins who were playing in bedroom. As i crawled along the shingles under the bathroom window, i heard a noise, like someone pouring water in a pool.  I peaked in the window and saw my aunt there, doubled over the toilet throwing up. Her shirt was folded neatly on the counter to avoid being splashed. I could see her ribs poking up through her skin. My aunt, strong and beautiful, was here alone on her knees....

That forgotten image came flooding back into my mind. My aunt was not free from guilt. She was chained to that toilet for an hour that day. I knew then that my Enemy was lying. She was bitter, she wanted me to be alone. For the first time, my mind rebelled against her. For the first time, the foundations of her city began to shake. 

When Husband came home from work that night I was buried deep in the covers, wide awake. He kissed me held me in his arms. If he could have seen the battleground in my mind, I think it would have frightened him. My Enemy was using all her influence to keep my mouth shut. But something within me knew that it was time to speak. “I threw up tonight” I whispered. And that was the beginning of the end.

Possessed

One of my earliest memories is of playing hide-and-seek at Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer. I was lying in the dark under the bed with my face pressed down into the red shag carpet. Waiting. There were dusty shoe boxes and plastic-wrapped blankets stacked all around me. I felt like they were waiting too, for the sunlight, for someone to open them again. Like most children, I was patient only when it came to hiding games, and I was willing to lie there all night, if need be, for someone to find me. I put my hands over my eyes and pushed down on my eye balls. When I lifted the pressure, the space in front of me exploded with imaginary fireworks. I pressed down harder, and harder, until suddenly I thought that maybe I could see a set of eyes. They were big and round and silver and stared right back at me unblinking, like an owl. Completely forgetting the game, I wriggled out from under the bed and went charging down the hall into the kitchen.

“Gramma! When I hide under the bed, I can see an owl’s eyes looking at me!”

Grandma looked up from the dishes with concern on her face. Grandpa, who was sitting at the kitchen table while Grandma cleaned, ordered me to come and stand before him.

“What did you see?”

“Owl Eyes!” I laughed. “Big round silver ones! Under the bed when I close my eyes!”

I don’t remember what he said next, but I remember my excitement went suddenly cold. Grandpa was not happy. He asked me lots of questions, and before long, Grandma dried off her hands and came to sit with us at the table. They laid their hands on my head and prayed. Grandpa rebuked Satan in the name of Jesus and Grandma whispered “yes Lord” under her breath again and again.

I used to look back on that day as the moment when Satan entered my body. Later when I started hearing angry voices in my head, Dad told me it was Satan attacking me. But I was certain that Satan had already won. Those voices were coming from the inside where Satan had certainly taken up a residence. I didn’t tell Dad.

As a kid, I interpreted my hunger and growing pains as attacks from Satan; tricks from the devil, trying to make me fat and unsightly. I remember staring at myself in the mirror, screaming in a whisper. In moments like these I was consumed by hatred for myself, hatred so powerful that it terrified me. I remember digging into fleshy thighs with my fingernails until I bruised. Once I accidently cut myself shaving. I soon grew addicted to the sight of blood swirling and mixing with water on its way down the drain. I cut my fingers, toes, arms and legs, It was sweet release. I couldn’t stop. When my Dad read the story of the demon-possessed boy who threw himself against stones and into the fire, I was sure that I was like that boy. Possessed with rage, with hatred, with guilt. Possessed by the Devil.

I was ashamed of my sexual feelings from a very early age. I used to agonize and beg God to take away the demon that made my fingers stray to forbidden places. At around 13 or 14, I had my first explicit sex dream, and I dreamed about a girl. I was horrified. Dad had once told me that the homosexuality demon was particularly evil. I knew I was doomed.

I remember once I borrowed an old News Boys CD from a “liberal” friend and listened to it secretly at night. I had to sneak the CDWalkman under my pillow because they were not allowed in the house. I made copies on a tape recorder before returning the CD so that I could listen whenever I wanted. The songs were stuck in my head for days. When I started to pray, the lyrics would surface in my mind. That was when I knew my Dad was right. The Devil was in this music. It was preventing me from prayer! I crushed up the tapes with my bare hands and threw them in the garbage.

As I write all this my mind is flooded with demon-tainted memories. I mourn all those hours wasted begging God to take Satan out of my mind, out of my body, out of my wayward heart. Who would I be today if I had never been told there were demons to fear? How much blood did I lose as I stood stoic at the sink, watching Satan slip down the drain in swirls of red?

 What memories did I miss while I hid my true self from the world, afraid they would see that I was Possessed?