No matter where you run, your problems will be there. This is true even if you try and escape into a different world.
In my teens, I was bullied mercilessly and was desperately unhappy. I felt powerless and unable to control my life. Every day I would come home in an impotent rage. I longed to stand up for myself and dreamed of revenge.
Against the backdrop of terrible self-esteem and being one of life’s perpetual victims, I was lured into the occult.
What happens when the real world becomes too painful to endure?
The real world was too harsh and complex for me. I was book-smart, but I needed to learn how to relate to others, assert myself, and pursue my version of success.
In the supernatural, I had a chance. I could avoid the pain of this world by finding solace in another. Without the danger of real-world interaction and disappointment, I could be a big shot.
I bought my first deck of Tarot cards and dedicated myself to learning all I could about them. I wasn’t quite ready for a crystal ball at this stage, and the Tarot cards had an aura of realism because they were physical, and whole books had been written about them by scammers masquerading as honest authors. They were “semi-scientific.”
I was shocked when I started getting accurate results, both for personal readings and the readings family and friends allowed. My dad thought the entire concept was ridiculous, and regretfully, I didn’t listen.
After exhausting my family, I realized I needed a broader range of “clients.” I heard about a local group comprising psychics of all descriptions, so I went along one Wednesday night.
Shooting ectoplasm and floating tables.
The group was led by a husband and wife called Nick and Jean. Nick dressed like a cowboy, combined with a mullet, while Jean had the dark, mysterious complexion you expect from the stereotypical psychic and loved talking about the ghosts she had seen each week from her kitchen. Every week the group would discuss a specific topic.
Mondays were reserved for guided meditation. My first meditation was to meet and connect with a “spirit guide” on the “Astral Plane.” I learned that a spirit guide is supposed to look after us. I was putty in the group’s hands. As someone constantly bullied and victimized, thinking a higher power was looking after me made me feel excited.
Suddenly, Nick brought the meditation to an end. He said that someone in the group had gone so deep that there was now a spirit in the room, and they feared the spirit would overwhelm the meditator. He said he couldn’t take the risk and the group would have to meet next week. Nick called me to one side as I was getting ready to leave.
The person who was about to be overwhelmed was me.
By the next week, Nick had his whole spiel ready for me. He told me that the meditation revealed my true psychic power. He told me I could be a “physical medium.” This unique brand of fraudster was common in the 1800s. Their party trick is to pretend to contact the dead while shooting ectoplasm around the room, making tables move and even levitating.
I was wrapped up in my special powers. I imagined going to school the next day and shooting ectoplasm at my bullies. Maybe even slamming them into tables. I felt powerful for the first time in my life. I needed to harness this power!
Every night from then on, I’d lock myself in the kitchen, light candles and incense, and try to contact the dead. I tried shooting the ectoplasm, but all I got was a headache. It was an abject failure.
Not to be disheartened, I was now ready for the crystal ball. I would also try divining from a bowl of water, ouija boards, and even spells. Absolutely nothing happened.
Nick must have sensed my despondency because he had an ace up his sleeve.
Matchbox selling and murder in a past life.
You might think meditation is a peaceful affair. Isn’t it something “mindfulness” experts do when they reach 60? Not this kind!
This time the topic was “past life regression.”
The group was all believers in reincarnation; on this day, we would learn who we were in our past lives.
Surprise, surprise, as usual, I was the special participant.
My meditation took me back to London in 1888. But I wasn’t a King or Queen. I didn’t live a wealthy and privileged life. Instead, I was an old woman selling matchboxes. My side hustle was street prostitution. I was unable to make money while I slept, but at least I could make it lying down.
One day I was packing my matchboxes away when a gang attacked me. I was severely injured and died of exposure, lying on some steps alone and waiting for the elements to do their work.
Of course, this all tied into my fascination with Jack the Ripper, a serial killer at that exact time in that same city, killing the kind of person I thought I was. But I couldn’t see my subconscious at work and left the meditation distraught.
My dad saw me crying and got angry. He said I was being gullible and had no time for my ridiculous stories. Incidentally, my dad also swore he saw ghosts and sometimes flew in his sleep. He was a complex character.
The real-world pain will still be waiting for you.
Ultimately the whole psychic experience was disappointing. I made £2 from tarot reading and had an awful imagined past life. I never managed to shoot that ectoplasm; my contact with the dead was hit-and-miss.
My real-world problems were still waiting for me, and I realized my vulnerable state had made me susceptible to grooming. These frauds had captivated me with stories about how powerful I was, which kept me returning for more.
I had to confront the causes of my pain in this world — our only world. As I began the painstaking work of changing my life, I had less time and inclination to believe in fairytales.
Are they frauds or just idiots?
Looking back, I see the truth. I was frightened and powerless and sought power in a safe and comfortable way. Supposed psychics took advantage and sought to extract as much money from me as possible by telling me what I wanted to hear.
Fortunately, I dared to pull away from this world.
Psychics are now mainstream. They can even become top writers and make a lot of money even though they fit into one of two camps — stupid or fraudulent.
James Randi offered a million dollars to any one of these frauds if they could prove their psychic powers. Every single one of them failed.
Please don’t fall for their nonsense. Tear up your tarot cards, smash the crystal ball, and start trying to improve the only life you know you have.
The real world can be far more beautiful than any scammer’s fantasy.
Click here to join my Substack community, where we focus on all things related to mental health.
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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
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