The Unorthodox Belief Systems of My Parents
My Childhood of Tarot Cards, Auras, Exorcisms and Night Terrors
Reasons not to peek while receiving an exorcism
Aliens, astrology, psychic phenomena, tarot cards, auras, Atlantis, exorcisms, vitamin megadosing: My mother used all of these beliefs, strategies and resources to guide me, herself and the whole family in virtually all of our decisions, big and small. She collected books and magazines about these and related topics. They lined the shelves of two walls in the den and she laminated each cover. She idolized Edgar Cayce, and she passionately spoke about his teachings including the existence of giants, the benefits of extreme and dangerous dieting, polygenism, and more.
I believed what she told me, no matter how strange and far-fetched. She was, after all, an adult. I was around 7 when she started making me into a participant, although her obsessions had been going on long before then.
She encouraged me to predict the future as well as determine who I was in past lives through the use of tarot cards, astrology and psychic readings. She bought me a miniature deck of tarot cards of my own. I wanted the full-sized one, but she told me I wasn’t ready to have them yet. I guess she wanted me to be more proficient first.
She dealt and interpreted the cards for hours at a time, using reference books to supplement the manual that came with the cards. She told me I had been a prince in one of my many previous lifetimes. She always determined I had been someone exotic or important, as she had been herself. She took frequent classes on interpreting the cards, learning their meaning in conjunction with other cards.
However, she devoted most of her time to astrology and would warn us when the planets were in a position that indicated something bad was likely to happen: were the planets aligned? Was Saturn in the 7th house? I can’t remember the exact terminology, but it seemed like a different language. She read and drew what seemed to be countless, elaborate astrological charts. She used most of her time this way. That, and sleeping.
She had clinical depression all her life and would sleep for days on end. When I asked my father why she was sleeping so much, he became annoyed and told me in a scolding tone of voice that she was sick and needed bedrest to recover.
The meaning of “sick” I guess could be interpreted in a number of ways, but I took it to mean that she had a physical ailment, and his lack of details, along with his tone of voice, signaled to me that I shouldn’t ask any further. Based on my father’s endorsement of and participation in the activities related to her belief system, I doubt he that, when he used that term, he was referring to a mental illness or a judgment about her.
Her passion for astrology, tarot cards, the supernatural, and use of me as a guinea pig for bizarre “medical treatments” were about the only things that seemed to motivate her, the only things about which she would talk in a truly animated way.
She told me I was a gifted psychic, something she had always suspected. This, she told me, was confirmed by multiple psychics from whom she received readings. That made me feel very special. I finally was part of something she valued, something she approved of, something she loved, so I embraced it whole-heartedly. If she couldn’t love me for who I was, at least I had this.
Every week we went to classes on how to see auras and how to exorcise bad entities that would attach themselves and cause bad luck or strange behaviors in the unlucky person. We made the drive from Delaware to a small town in Pennsylvania every week to participate in these events in a large, old, spooky and imposing house. It wasn’t hard to believe that ghosts and troubled spirits inhabited it.
These meetings took place at night in a large conference-type room and there were typically about 20 attendees. Candles were lit, incense was burned and the lights were turned off, creating a warm, dim, spooky atmosphere. These events would begin with a lecture about spirituality, other-worldly phenomena and the science behind it. Then the fun part started.
A volunteer was chosen from those who raised their hands, and this person would come to the front of the room where one of the psychics scanned their body. They did this by slowly moving their hands around their outline, never touching them. This person would describe what was going on in the life of the volunteer, things like “you are experiencing emotional pain,” to which the volunteer would confirm. This fascinated me and gave me something of a sense of hope.
Children were believed to be more gifted at being psychic and in their ability to communicate with ghosts and spirits than adults. My parents, my mother in particular, encouraged me to volunteer as well as read other people’s auras at these meetings.
I would walk to one side of the room in front of the members. I would slowly move my hands around the volunteer’s body. I would squint my eyes in the dark room, convinced I could see vague glowing colors hovering outside the volunteer’s body and shooting away from their fingertips. There were certain colors that indicated something good or bad, emotionally or physically.
I would state to the group what I saw in the aura. One time I saw a red area surrounding a woman’s knee, and she confirmed knee pain. I took this as further reinforcement of my talent. My mother was delighted. She was also able to see auras, but told me she was not as skilled as I.
I often didn’t understand or care about what was being discussed in the introductory lecture portion of the class, and one time when I got bored, I whispered to my mother “When are the aura readings going to start?” She told me to raise my hand and ask, which I did. The lecturer was annoyed by my question and responded with something curt. I felt embarrassed. When I turned to my mother she was laughing at me. I didn’t volunteer that night.
I was having night terrors and would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, heart racing. Once while I was still half asleep, still terrified, I smashed a lamp. My mother and father rushed to my room and their presence was genuinely comforting and they spoke to me soothingly. My mother would hug me. She was always generous with her hugs and would give me one when I asked. A good one too, not one of those lame lean-in hugs.
To remedy my night terrors, my mother arranged a one-on-one session with an exorcist who said that my terrors were due to an angry dead spirit attaching itself to me. He explained that there are times when people are more or less vulnerable to this phenomenon, I can’t remember what the criteria was, but he told my parents that he needed to be alone with me to do the necessary work. They understood and waited outside the room.
After he closed the door, I sat down while he did some sort of prayer out loud as well as some verbalizations I didn’t understand. He waved his hands around the outside of my body and did a violent grabbing and throwing motion, over and over, for 5 minutes or so. I was supposed to have my eyes closed the whole time but I peeked.
When he was finished, he opened the door and told my waiting parents that he had removed the problematic entity causing my night terrors. He didn’t accept payment, but my parents made a donation to the organization that night. They were genuinely grateful.
My mother expressed relief that I was finally free and claimed that night and afterwards I no longer had night terrors. But they continued anyway.
If only I hadn’t peeked.
