When You Realize Someone Stole A Part Of You
This is the second in a series of guest blog posts by up-and-coming author, Suzanne Hersey. Her first book, Faith, Food, Family, will be available from Iaconagraphy Press in Fall of 2018!
It was the late 80’s: the height of the Satanic Panic. I was struggling with my path, having just lost the man I thought was the love of my life, and hating God for taking him. I was riding the crazy train; engaging in any behavior that could potentially destroy me and at the same time affront the God of my childhood, who I believed had abandoned me. I know now that my Guardian was there, patiently resting his head in his hands, waiting for me to get my spiritual shit together, but unable to protect me from myself, especially if I was going to shut him out, too. I had the most amazing roommate then, and I had a wonderful group of friends that both held me through my grief and pushed me forward, as best they could. I was attending what is now UMass North Dartmouth, but was then Southeastern Mass University. The architect of that beautiful campus is Paul Rudolph. He designed the campus around air-flow, with a huge radio tower in the center that drew all the wind in, and long flat steps that kept you from running to class, making you slow down and really take your time to get where you were headed. In the time of the Satanic Panic and a rash of murdered prostitutes, the rumors were ripe that Paul Rudolph had built the campus to channel Satan. What utter BS! But in that time where the woods in New Bedford, Dartmouth and Fall River were rumored to contain Satanic Ritual sites full of slaughtered animals, and the campus had quite a few students that were very out in their Satan Worship, we, as a group, quietly cast Tarot and read what books we could find on Witchcraft. This was the time when I was gifted my first set of Runes and realized that they were easy for me; that I could work them like an instrument.
The friends I had were huge D&D nerds. I loved them and all their creative nerdiness, but it really was not my thing. I would hang out with them and watch, but rarely participated. I had a huge crush on the Dungeon Master. I would later fall madly for him and then break his delicate artist’s heart. That is what I did, because I was shattered. I shattered anyone who got too close. But that is not how I lost my soul part. It was, however, through that group of people.
There was an off-campus group with whom my friends played, and I would tag along to the apartment, because they were older and had alcohol. That was my numbing drug of choice. So I got to know these people and their Dungeon Master, whose name, to this day, I have refused to speak. Back then, I was a thin, wild blond. I loved loud music and wild parties; anything to dull the pain. He was obsessed with me. He told me he would have me, whether I wanted him, or not. I clung to my male friends as a shield. I clung to a young witch from Salem named Matthew (I named my son for him, though I have no idea where his life took him) who would gift me spells to keep me safe. I continued my work on astral travel and I started getting good at it.
I was a daddy’s girl; I still am. I wore a pendant that my daddy gave me at my first penance all the time. It was a simple piece of silver jewelry with praying hands. It was the part of my Catholic faith I held on to, because it was my shield.
Then it happened. One night, I lay in bed on the top bunk in my dorm room. There were many nights before I had felt someone there, watching me and touching me. Tonight it would all change. I reached out of myself to confront him and he grabbed me. To say he assaulted me is nothing to what it truly felt like. I dragged myself back in, trying to lock the door behind my flying astral self. And when I woke, that pendant was levitating above me, I could see it, I could feel it, and it was ripping at me; he was choking me. I was alone; everyone else was asleep. I couldn’t scream. I begged whoever could hear me to either free me or let me die, finally, to be with my lost love. And then the pendant dropped, and he was gone. After that night, I made sure I never had contact with him again. My little witch cast all he could to make it impossible for that piece of garbage to come near me. But it was too late: my attacker had broken off and killed a part of me. I never stepped outside again.
I have loved my Pagan and Norse path. I have attended classes and rituals with some of the most beautiful souls you could ever find, at the Temple of Witchcraft in Salem, NH. I would sit in meditation, while others flew free and feel lesser, stupid, broken, because I could not fly like that anymore. I finally felt safe when the High Priest of that Temple let me hold his own token of protection during an astral journey. In that moment, holding a sculpture of a dragon skull from Wales, I put a toe truly back out.
As I wrote in my last blog, The Feast of Hekate set me free in so many ways. I know I am ready to let that fear go, because I know that my Guardians–living, dead, and Godly–are with me, and that beast will never find me again. I am certain he has forgotten me, even while I can still see his face when I close my eyes and try to fly. I need that soul piece back; I need a new soul piece. This is my first step:
Dan, I forgive you for what you did. I release you from my hatred and resentment, and I set you free. I am strong. I am safe. And I am not afraid of you anymore.
