Diary of a Death Witch

I’ve always had a feeling of being … off. I was always too wild, too imaginative, lost in a daydream. I was too comforted and attracted to the dark. I felt odd in the normal world. I felt uncomfortable in the light. I’ve never really been a girl of flowers and pastels.

Should we start with ‘I was born? I grew up?’ I suppose not. The intimate details of my becoming would not be of interest to anyone. No, I suppose it’s the bigger pieces that matter most: how to transform a ‘good Christian’ girl from California into a Death Witch. The chapters of distress that altered me from the inside out.

Even as a child in my developing years, I saw the world differently. I saw the fantastical when most saw the ordinary. I saw impossible dangers when most saw irrational worry. For this, I was labeled creative, sensitive, imaginative, and always off in ‘my own little world’. I suppose that is one way of looking at things. Except that the world I saw doesn’t exist separately from everyday reality. It’s intertwined and connected in more ways than even those with sight could ever explain.

Death is one of those things that I saw that others dismissed. Death used to be a more common topic of conversation at different times. Cultures all around the world accepted death, the afterlife, and the spirit realm as normal parts of the human experience. There were rituals performed for the dead and understandings of spirits traveling back and through the realms. That knowledge is all but gone and death has faded into a taboo string of conversations in first-world countries. Those comfortable in the world of death and that blurred line between realms are often looked at as outlandish, odd, or simply out of their minds. I’ve been labeled a freak, a psycho, a killer, a weirdo… I suppose none of those terms are really wrong.

The chapters started with this. Cults and mind control come in a wide variety of forms. They are also reasonably subjective to the victim. I grew up never questioning anything. I had a beautiful home, a beautiful life, and a devoted faith taught to me since birth. Why would I ever need to stray? Why would I ever look below the surface for a deeper meaning or understanding?

Growing up surrounded by unwavering religion is much like being born into a mental institution. Being told from the start that everything with you is wrong and immoral, but you’re in the perfect place to be “fixed”. The trouble is, how do you really know you’re broken? Did you go to medical school? How do you know those pills are helping? How would you know if you were being slowly poisoned?