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Confessions of a Teenage Witch
“Witch!” Justin hissed at me. He intended it as an insult, a way to malign me in a Bible-thumping middle school in which my witchery would be a social death sentence.
It worked, but I also realized something as I glared at him across the lunchroom table.
I was a witch.
For my entire childhood, churchgoing children pitted their religion, however insincerely adopted, against “witchcraft.” Using a ouija board was considered to be a foolish flirtation with the Devil, and dressing as anything besides a Disney princess or superhero was an invite to his corruption.
After abuse in a religious cult, I’d reevaluated my faith. And after a bit of wrestling with my socialization, I came to a realization.
I was a witch.
Witchery, to me, wasn’t about cursing anyone or doing work against God. It was an affirmation of the power that I knew I had but had nearly lost as Justin gaslighted me with the accouterment of his Pentecostal cult. It was a strong belief in my place in the world, rather than in a potentially uncaring deity who would have obliterated me in a flood.
With witchcraft, I had power — through my own belief in the world’s natural order. I didn’t have to adhere to arbitrary rules to gain some elusive promise of heaven. I simply had to live well…
