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Witchcraft, telepathy, levitation, spirit channeling, ESP, and a host of other paranormal activities were all I knew from early childhood. While we attended church every Sunday and called ourselves Christians, my parents started espousing Hindu beliefs and New Age philosophies. Soon, choir camp was replaced with psychic camp, and séances, Ouija boards, crystals, and pendulums became the norm in our home. Every night around the dinner table, we discussed topics such as ghosts, poltergeists, and contact from the beyond. Yet as strange as it sounds, we still considered ourselves to be Christian.
Then, when I was 17, my mother's slow, agonizing battle with cancer ended. The void within me was too great to fill, so I found solace in my anger. To anesthetize my pain over my mom's death, I turned to black magic, voodoo, hexes, and curses. Since my future seemed so uncertain, I began reading Tarot cards to tell my fortune. I even took on a new appearance—I cut and dyed my light brown curls jet black. I wore white makeup, black lipstick, and black clothes. Eight holes pierced my ear—my new trademark.
My behavior changed as well. I quit high school and started hanging out downtown with all the other misfits and vagabonds. One of my best friends was a warlock named Stephen. Witchcraft became my haven, my identity, my lifestyle. Although my dad and I were close, he was too caught up in his grief to seem to notice the poor choices I was making. He later told me he was sorry he hadn't been more of an emotional support for me during the time my life started taking its downward spiral.
I considered myself a spiritual person. While I believed God is the Creator of all things and that Jesus Christ is his son, one important element was missing: reverence. I had no fear of God, no sense of accountability or responsibility to him. In my mind, hell didn't exist, which alleviated the consequences of evil.
As the years went by, I barely scraped out a living as a manicurist. I moved from place to place—Atlanta, Seattle, and finally Hollywood when I was 26 years old. With no money, no car, and no telephone, life was hard. The tiny room I rented on the Boulevard was hot and cockroach-infested. I stepped over used syringes and condoms each morning on my way to the bus stop. I didn't fill my father in on all these details because I didn't want him to worry. I persisted in romanticizing this colorful and sometimes dangerous lifestyle, but it was taking its toll.
Suffering from severe anorexia, my 100-pound, 5-foot-5-inch frame had its share of health issues. And with a weekly budget of fifty dollars, as the years passed, I wondered why the Universe wasn't taking better care of me. Surely the answer lay within the supernatural sphere of my mother's crystal ball, which my father gave me right after she died. Though it was quite large and expensive, the thought of selling it never crossed my mind, as it would inevitably become a family heirloom. Still, whenever I gazed into it, I received no word from the beyond. I sank deeper into poverty, and my health problems progressed.
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