I believe that Satanism is not the horrible religion people bring it up to be. There is supposed to be religious freedom in America, but people aren’t always willing to accept others who believe differently. Around the time that I turned 15, I told myself that I would figure out who I was. I however, am proud of being a Satanist, even though I have dealt with a torrent of unfairness and agony. Stumbling across it changed my life forever, but weather you think it was for the good or bad is not for me to decide. I like to think of it as a learning experience.
The summer of 2006 was painful to say the least. My older sister was over at my house while I was packing to spend the weekend with her. She came across my art book that was a work in progress. I had a niche in the back and an exacto knife to finish cutting it out. Thinking I was cutting myself, she told my mom about it when I wasn’t around so that she could take it out when we left. When I got back from staying with my sister, my mom looked like she was almost in tears. Coming back into my house, I noticed things looked a little different; there were no candles anywhere. Before I had a chance to drop my stuff off in my room, my parents told me to sit down because they wanted to talk about something they found. “Heather told me you had a knife in the back of your art book” my mother said. “So when I went to take it out I found some writing that was in there also.” She had read that I was Satanic. I don’t remember what all was said in that conversation, but it went on for about an hour with a lot of tears, some yelling, and convincing me that I was evil. I walked into my room and I started hyperventilating. My walls that were once covered with band photos and my artwork were bare. Drawers that were full of journals were empty. My music was no where, and the majority of my books were missing. For over a week, walking into my room brought tears to my eyes. My mother had also gotten rid of all candles and matches “so I wouldn’t do any spells”.
Supposedly, this was all going to make me want to be a Christian again. But it had done quite the opposite. I wanted nothing to do with that religion again. She thought that I was evil? My aesthetics were based upon the idea that worshiping others was unnecessary, that people have the potential to be their own god, and to live and let live. For the next three months, my mom had me go to the doctor so I could be put on anti-depressants in hopes that I would be cured. Now, a year and a half later, I find myself missing some of the things I lost. I don’t regret becoming Satanic, it’s who I am and what makes me feel good about myself. It’s not conventional but I would go through all that pain again, because I grew up and found out that religion can make people do drastic and vulgar things.
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