Juxtaposition: My Testimony

At almost nineteen now, my faith journey has been particularly winding, only to eventually lead me back to where I began. I think it's time to tell the whole story, so those of you that haven't known me for long will know where I came from. This first part, Juxtaposition, is the "Protestant" portion of the journey, from my birth to acceptance of Christ at sixteen. I wrote it two years ago, and will eventually follow up with an as yet unwritten second half. I'll be adding extra details to this part, as well. I apologize, too, for the length!

“Hoo boy."

This being the singular thought floating through my mind as I sit down to an empty window and try, once again, to tell my story. This being attempt number four. I've always believed a testimony to be an account of rock-solid faith, of conviction, whathaveyou, so I've often given up. I've told myself that 'I’m not in the right place, this isn't the right time, I'm not sure', along with a number of other things. Be aware, my friends, that I am far from being a person of rock-solid, stable faith. Nevertheless, I have a story. By telling it here, I hope that all of us can learn something worthwhile...I am writer by trade, and longwinded by nature. This is your only warning.

Juxtaposition- v., the act of placing two items side by side for comparison

~*~*~

I was born and raised in the Catholic Church, as all the generations before mine had been. My mother went to Catholic school for 1st-8th grade, and my dad was one of the troublesome boys in his neighborhood that hid from the nuns who went door-to-door collecting the kids for Sunday School/catechism classes (CCD). As was customary, we each did our eight year tour of duty and received the first three Sacraments, and then we were left alone. Most of the family lived secularly from that point forward.

The first four years or so of CCD were alright. I was faithful, prayed often, and Mom took me to Church on Saturdays, glad for the experience herself. However, by the time I was in 7th grade, I’d developed a social life and apparently had better things to do with my time than go to CCD. Imagine that! ;) I continued to go to classes (with much protest), but stopped listening or caring about what they had to say.

Why, you might ask, did I go through with it all if I didn't care? It was out of a sense of duty, I think; a tradition that was so very important to my Italian family. In Confirmation, I would not only be seen as an adult in the Church, but in my family, as well. With my godmother at my back and my family surrounding me, I was Confirmed in October of 2003, the beginning of my freshman year of high school. For an instant that day, in the midst of balsalm and an unflattering white robe, I felt God there. It would be the last time I would let Him touch me for a long time.

The transition into high school was a huge turning point in my life. I was always known for having an explosive imagination—as a child, I held a “séance”, made up ghost stories, dressed up and pretended to be a witch, you know, normal kid stuff—but really, I knew in my heart it was nothing more than fantasy. Throughout junior high I’d read about most major religions, always fascinated by other beliefs and cultures, almost envious and resentful of my "boring" Catholicism. Throughout ninth grade, I’d been reading Isobel Bird’s Circle of Three series, all “white-lite-and-teen-angst”, but the Wiccan theology practiced by the protagonists was intriguing.

The interest would stick with me, and in May of freshman year I was spending a lot of time with my cousin, who told me that she worked with chi. She introduced me to a few "fluffy" sites, and I was pretty much sucked in from there. Her boyfriend runs a group of energy workers around here, all high school and college kids. Their rules are strict to the point of being absurd, when I asked them why they were so rigid, I was told it was fear of the media finding out, or parents. In retrospect, they’re quite a bit like a cult. Shrugging off their paranoia, I continued studying alone after school got out for the summer.

I met my mentor, Malcolm, on a forum for energy workers in July of 2004. We started talking, and when he realized that I was being taught in a way that wasn’t only improper, but dangerous, he took me under his wing. I learned the science and logic behind what I was doing, and became an adept pretty quickly in qi gong, a traditional form of energy work that traces its roots to China.

By the time school rolled around again, I was pretty serious. I met Courtney online that October. She was Wiccan, and a lot like me. We clicked almost instantly, and that’s when I truly learned about Wicca and that some of the things I’d been reading were factual. It was hard back then to stay out of a fluffy crowd; it was really all I had. I barely kept my feet on the ground, but I managed. Somewhere around my 15th birthday in November, I started calling myself a Christo-Pagan. Sure, I had my issues with Christianity, but it was still a part of me I didn’t want to lose. With help from Malcolm and Courtney, I did a fair bit of hard research, and settled in as comfortably as I could with the theology I’d accepted. I didn’t get by without criticism, though; Christians and Pagans alike were confused at best and downright rude at worst when it came to me.

For a while, I was a happy little emo-closet-bunny. I hung around with the guys from my cousin’s group and the other little emo-closet-bunnies. My friend J and I were incredibly close. We’d been friends since we started high school together, and he was an occultist as well. The two of us trained together, sometimes along with my best friend, CJ.

Yule that year was special for me. Using a gift from an old boyfriend to prepare for the sabbat, I decided to "ground" all of my negativity into it, leaving myself free of energy that would cloud my thinking and work. Foolishly, I brought the amulet to class to show off, piquing CJ's curiosity, and after handling it for some time he paled, started shaking, and got goosebumps. Honestly, it freaked us all out. J helped him ground, and it made him feel better, but we still weren’t sure what to do with the amulet. We met up a few days later at a friend’s house. By this time, I was feeling extremely guilty about what had happened. I blamed my faulty magick for hurting CJ, and took it upon myself to make up for what I had done.

Together, J and I worked to “fix” the amulet, reversing and releasing all the negativity I had channeled within it. After a while, though, even J started feeling strange and shaking. By now, I was disgusted and angry with myself. Again, my work had caused my friends’ pain, and they were only trying to help. Reckless and upset, I threw myself into a ritual having no idea what I was doing.

Stupid doesn’t even begin to cover the wide spectrum of things I was that night. I’d felt magick before, but this? Laying on the floor afterward, nausea and dizziness eating at me, I realized that the path wasn’t as simple as it seemed. As cowardly and simple the whole ordeal seemed, at barely fifteen, I was terrified of the power that I had gone out of my control. Not knowing what else to do, I tucked my tail between my legs and hit the ground running.

Everything fell apart on New Year’s Day of 2005. J had started to cut himself regularly, I was giving up magick, others in my crowd were doing drugs…it was the most helpless I’ve ever felt. I’d never realized how attached I’d become to the people and things Wicca had brought into my life. Depression onset itself quickly, and I couldn’t cope. I either slept far too much or far too little, and withdrew from my former optimistic lifestyle. This spawned an ugly war between my mother and I as lashing out at her was a favorite hobby of mine. I put up a tough, rebellious façade, and cried while I knew no one was looking. Every esbat brought back memories I would have rather forgotten, and sabbats left me hungry for another taste of magick. If I could just do the right ritual, or train hard enough, I could fix the situations my friends and I had fallen into, couldn't I?

It was one night in February that I finally hit bottom. All I remember of it was sobbing and begging to be set free by Whatever chose to find me first. Dangerous, maybe, and it would be a while, but I would get there. At the end of June, I would be undergoing major surgery on both legs, leaving me with casts up to my knees, intense therapy and six weeks stuck at home. Midsummer (Litha) came and, three days before I went into the hospital, I dedicated myself to actively seeking a faith, any faith.

August brought me to ExWitch.org, a Protestant outreach for those currently and formerly involved in the occult; and November, the Pagan & Christian Moot, a forum for interfaith dialogue. Finally, I had found people that had felt the things I did, and shared the same experiences. At first, I was confrontational and standoffish as the staff members tried, often aggressively, to evangelize me. Eventually I would take a long sabbatical from both places, rejecting their help in knowing that this was a decision I needed to make of my own volition, without their influence.

In the end, I traveled full-circle: I spent New Year’s Eve of 2005 with the same people, in the same place. But rather than being depressed, I was so proud of how far I’d come, and had a renewed sense of hope for the future. At 2 AM on the first day of 2006, I gave my life to Christ.

With my salvation came a myriad of emotions: disbelief, peace, confusion, comfort among them. Since then, I’ve had to grapple with a lot of things. Many vices have been kicked aside, and a few friends whom I hold dear have regretfully pulled away from me. My parents are very slowly coming to terms with my decision, but their love hasn’t wavered, and for that I am grateful. I have wonderful friends, Christian and Pagan, local and not. All of them have made an effort to reach out to me with support, love, and prayer (of all sorts!). Through these two years of intense trial, I’ve found my place, and have realized how blessed I truly am. Thank God.

To be continued...