Demons from the past, literally

I had chronic stomach pain while growing up, and when I complained about it I was told one of three things.  1) You’re faking it, and trying to get attention or 2) You have hidden sin that you need to confess or 3) You’re spiritually weak and have been possessed by demons, again.

This instilled in me the belief that I can will my way out of any physical ailment, if I search my heart and soul for impurities or if I just put my nose back on the grindstone, shut the hell up and be a good girl.

At least seven times in my life (that I can remember) my sinful, troublemaking nature made a “deliverance” necessary.  A “deliverance” is of course a good, old-fashioned, exorcism.  The elders of the church, along with a few others if necessary, anoint your head with olive oil and pray in tongues and lay hands on you while waiting for the Holy Spirits direction on which demons or spirits in particular need to be cast out.

I noticed that with the onset of puberty, hormones and curves that the deliverances became more necessary.  I think it’s because people in transition upset the expectation of the way things should be.  I think puberty made me evil in some way (I was once beaten for having erect nipples, so I was obviously asking for it.)

The funny thing about it is that the demons were believed to have left the body if something came out of you.  Tears were easy, so there was a lot of crying.  It’s easy to cry when you are 12 and there are people touching you and yelling at you in a spirit language and your head is greasy from all of the anointing.  But demons also can come out through a yell, a burp, a cough, sneeze or fart.  I chose to do a lot of coughing because I can’t fart on command.

At every deliverance, they cast out the “Spirit of Jezebel”.  And I remember from my very first one at about eight that she would come in handy.  I remember as I was burping, coughing and crying that I hope she stayed in me.  Because she sounded strong and I knew that I needed strength.

I, of course, am completely now addicted to the Jezebel lingerie line.  And I think my hair is so shiny from all of that olive oil.

To the nice man with a cane to whom I gave a dirty look at Kinko’s

I’m sorry; I know it came off as a dirty look. But I was really scared of you on a primal level. You triggered a memory in me. In my peripheral vision I saw a man carrying a stick down low, walking a little too close into my personal space. I was startled. You see, once when I was 16, I was falsely accused of something by an elder in my church. I told the truth and said it wasn’t true. The elder’s wife ordered that my hair be cut off as punishment. My hair was past my elbows and I loved it. It was grabbed and cut off by my father, truly one of the longest and scariest nights of my life. A 16 year old life that had already had many long and scary nights. When your family hurts you, who is left to comfort you?

The elders decided I was also “dead” to the church until I confessed. I was ordered to stand against a wall every week day from 8-5 while my mom was at work in the church office, They put me in view of her desk. She would pointedly not stare at me while she cried and worked. I could feel her telling to give in, I tried to beam psychic messages to her saying I was innocent. 80 hours I stood, not all in a row, but it’s a lot. Just who were they trying to punish? Kids from the church cleaned up after school, they vacuumed around me like I was a lamp. Nobody spoke to me for two weeks, naked without the long hair I’d had my entire life. Every once in a while the pastor of my church would sneak up behind me while holding a PVC Pipe down really low so it was out of my peripheral vision and he would strike me multiple times on the butt and thighs. At least I existed while he was hitting me; I was visible until the sting died down.

I didn’t confess, Jesus doesn’t like it when we lie. Those two weeks started the worst year of my life. It got a little easier, it’s exhausting to keep up that level of creativity in punishment. In the end, I won.

So I’m sorry. I wonder what pain makes you walk with a cane. I wanted to tell you why I flinched it had nothing to do with you, but then it would be weird to have a girl give you a dirty look and then tell you a trauma. It was hard enough to shed a few tears while pointedly not staring at you. I think I also freaked out the cashier.

Best of luck,

One of this planet’s many walking wounded.