Tarot, Druids, Talking Ghosts and What Happened In Between | Memoir CH 1.4-6

In the summer before eighth grade, my family moved to Indiana. It was here that I learned about a small hippie shop in nearby Indianapolis. The store was rumored to contain occult items.

It took some doing, but I convinced my mother to take me there—and it was everything I’d hoped and more.

The interior of the shop was dimly lit, and the shelves were filled with strange and exotic objects. There were crystal pendulums and black-light posters and a big open display of incense. But it was the stack of bright yellow tarot decks that caught and held my attention.

I was fascinated by the vivid pen and ink drawing on the front of the box. A man in a red robe stood over a table. Laid out before him were four mysterious items: a wand, a sword, a chalice, a pentagram within a circle.

Out of all the odd and intriguing items in that shop, those cards were the only thing I wanted. I didn’t know what tarot was or how to use it, but I knew I had to learn.

This was the kind of certainty that would stay with me for the rest of my life. ADHD impulsivity, perhaps, or intuition, or actual spiritual guidance. But no matter what I called it, I was always ready to answer the call.

I bought my first tarot deck on the spot with the money I’d saved from babysitting.

When I got home, I went through the deck card by card.

One stood out.

The High Priestess, sitting regally between the pillars of dark and light, with a scroll in her hand and a blue cloak around her shoulders.

This was the goddess I was looking for. This was Isis in her temple. Mistress of arcane knowledge. Keeper of secrets.

Moving had given me a brand-new start. No one in Indiana knew about my interest in witches or how unpopular I had been in Michigan. And I wasn’t about to tell them.

I spent the first part of eighth grade watching the girls from the in-crowd. Then, I carefully copied everything they did.

I cut my hair in the same way they cut theirs. I shopped at the same shops. I laughed at the same jokes. I was helpful. I was persistent. I tagged along behind them until they had to acknowledge me.

I still read tarot. I still loved Gothic novels and the paranormal, but I remembered the lesson I’d learned in sixth grade. I kept everything that really mattered to me to myself—and it worked.

By sophomore year, I had everything I had ever wanted. A cute boyfriend. Cool friends. A place in the social hierarchy. All I had to do was play the part.

I pretended to be interested in things I didn’t care about. I wore clothes I didn't like. I went to parties that were too noisy and too crowded. And it was at the parties where I discovered alcohol.

Drinking made everything easier. It gave me confidence. It made me feel close to friends with whom I had relatively little in common. It made communication easy.

But I didn’t see how vulnerable it made me until I was sexually assaulted by someone I was dating.

For me, that assault was a lot like the other hurts and humiliations I’d experienced so I handled it the same way. By keeping it to myself—but I was still affected.

I stopped going to parties. I stopped talking to people I didn’t like. I stepped away from the friends I’d worked so hard to win. And I started doing other things instead.

I returned to journaling. I drew the tree outside my bedroom window over and over again, but different every time. I allowed myself to be alone with my cards and my books.

Some people heal in company. Some people heal alone, and I was one of those. This is not to say, that I healed well or that being supported wouldn’t have helped me heal better. Only that, for me, solitude was important.

Because I found it full instead of empty.

And in that fullness, I began to dream again. Vivid dreams filled with magic.

I dreamt about fountains of rainbow-colored water and talking trees and ordinary objects that underwent strange transformations.

In one of my favorite dreams of that period, a single bright section of an orange transformed into a tiny infant right before my eyes.

At the mall a few days later, I saw an album in a record store window. On its cover was an almost dream-like image of a baby.

The name of the album was Atem, and it was by the German band Tangerine Dream. The connection between the album and my dream was obvious. I walked into the record store and bought it on the spot.

Later that night, listening to Tangerine Dream through my headphones, I had a vision. To me, this was a big deal because it was first time I’d ever seen anything in my mind’s eye before.

I now know that this is due to a condition called aphantasia. People with aphantasia can’t deliberately create mental images—but this wasn’t even on my radar then. All I knew was that the experience was unusual.

As the vision played out like a scene in a movie, a group of men in dark robes trudged up a barren hill. Behind them, a grove of trees had been cut down, and on each stump a man had been beheaded.

While the imagery was grisly, I wasn’t scared. I knew that the men were druids and that their way of life was ending. As the hauntingly beautiful music built to its crescendo, I felt a bittersweet sense of loss.

The feeling stayed with me for days. Finally, I was inspired to write a story about the druids and how they had been overwritten.

In the story, a group of conquering knights follow a mad druid guide through a primeval forest. The horses toss their heads. The whites of their eyes flash.

Odd things are nailed to trees—charms or curses or both, and as the men journey onward, their unease grows.

When they finally reach the desecrated druid grove, they know they are in trouble.

While I didn’t know it then, I had written a story that gave my vision the ending it deserved, and I would keep reframing things through my writing for the rest of my life.

Years later, I would learn about the Roman massacre at the Druid stronghold of Anglesey. It was there that the Romans cut down the sacred groves and dealt the old religion a blow from which it would not recover.

Looking back, I can see how this history was reflected in my vision and in the story I had written, and in my life.

I was only seventeen, but I’d been destroying what I held sacred for a very long time.

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Junior year came and went.

It was now 1975. I was the only person in our small town who read tarot or was fascinated by the paranormal. There was no such thing as goth then. But there was a current just beginning to form.

And black was its resonant color.

I started using eyeliner. Black, chalky stuff that mixed with water and went on like India ink. I discovered Black Sabbath. I painted my entire room black, including the ceiling.

I wrote poetry and fantasy stories. I read everything paranormal investigator Hans Holzer had ever written.

I heard my first ghost.

I was at a lonely farmhouse with the only friend I had kept, sitting in the kitchen waiting for her brother to come back and give me a ride. He was late, and it was already dark when I heard the sound of footsteps and murmuring voices on the porch.

“That’s John,” I said, getting up to collect my stuff.

The screen door squeaked, and the knob turned, and then all was quiet. When I got up and opened the door, it was like every horror story I’d ever read.

The porch was empty.

But I wasn’t the least bit scared. I was excited. It wasn’t proof and I knew, but it was a start.

I explored the Bible, working my way backward through Scripture, looking for answers.

I ordered occult books from Llewellyn’s mail-order catalogue. I read tarot for anyone who asked.

I returned to my roots.

In high school, I’d tried to be someone else and failed, but I didn’t really understand it then. I didn’t realize that I was struggling with two oppositional forces. The desire to be liked—and the drive to be myself.

High school had taken every ounce of energy I had. Returning to the things I loved had revived me, but it was only temporary. I didn’t see it as a cycle. I only knew that it was time to get on with my life, and I’d taken enough time off to feel like I might be able to do it.

So I picked a college and a major and decided to take another run at being an ordinary girl with an ordinary life.

To me, then, there was no other option.

New installment coming in August!

The Spirit Dream | A memoir about dreams, creative writing and AuDHD. A new installment posts every other Thursday.

🔔 The first draft of the memoir is now finished so I’m now posting new scenes once a month as I edit!

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