Meeting Regan

So I’m sitting here on vacation and thinking of hell. No, not because I’m in hell (more like the outer rim, really) but because of the warning from George W. about not messing with J.C. or I could get hurt? I don’t have to worry about that. As I said, “God” and I are on pretty good terms. Now satan? Ummmm, that’s some shit I don’t mess with. Ouji boards? Nope. Chanting ‘666’? Not a chance. Reciting incantations in a mirror in the dark, inviting that fallenest of fallen angels? No fuckin’ way, man. I grew up catholic.

It was about 25 years ago, right around this time of year. My sisters and I had just returned home from a day on the river. It was dusk, with a storm having just rolled through. After a day on the river, one’s tired, especially if you’ve been water skiing, which my mother had been. And this is the only explanation I offer for my mother’s lack of judgment. Perched on the corner of our living room coffee table was weird enough, but Mother sat locked in on a scene: a woman rolls over in bed to find her daughter who claimed her bed was shaking. Aaaannnnnndddd commercial. I felt oddly uncomfortable.

Mom switched the channel to “HeeHaw,” but with the next commercial, she switched it back. Scene: a woman answers the door and in hushed tones, invites the knocker in and talks of the girl. She ushers the knocker up a stairway into a room where she shines a flashlight onto the girl’s belly. With my fraidy-cat radar totally firing, I whined/begged for some Mini Pearl. Staring at the TV, Mom answered, “Oh, just wait. This is a good part. It’s not that bad.” Not that bad?! With the flashlight beaming on the girl’s stomach, letters rise and spell out, “Help me.” AAAAHHHHH!!!!

Since when is “The Exorcist” acceptable viewing for anyone under 18? Okay, 16? Ten?! I was already an easily freaked out kid (maybe it comes with Catholicism). Tales of the devil? Oh ho, I remember the ads for the original “Omen” back in the ‘70s. The commercial was enough. Yet there we were, in our home, and our mother (who kept fresh fruit aplenty and would later ban ‘The Simpsons’ because of Bart’s negative influence) was all blanked out, drool trickling from her chin.

Thanks Ma. Because of that brief run in with Regan, I spent my adolescence certain that satan was shaking my bed. At catechism, we’d be told stories of the reality of possession and how satan hung out at rock concerts. By my freshman year of college, I’d summoned the courage to ask a boyfriend to rent it and watch it with me. It was horrible and nasty and everything I thought it would be, but there was a positive flip side: it ended up neutralizing a lot of my possession fears. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate “Tubular Bells” and find the movie poster eternally creepy, but watching it somehow sucked the power out of it.

I went through a phase a couple years ago in which I doubted the existence of evil, rationalizing that satan was more an irrational component of our unconscious Ego. Honestly, I really don’t like to think about it today. I like to believe I still rationalize the power of our Ego run amok, but I cannot ignore the senses and coincidences. For instance, a recent episode of This American Life included an interview with a man who, at the age of 12, was at a Christian camp and challenged the devil. The devil won.

So I guess all I’m saying is that God and I, we’re good. He/She/It tolerates my non-belief and, in fact, relishes in my questions and lack of faith. But satan? I just don’t go there. I’m not saying I believe or don’t believe. While I no longer fear my bed shaking, I also no longer look to get spooked. Life’s freaky enough without my imagination getting into the mix, though is it just coincidence this is my 66th post on the 6th day of August? And my husband and I are watching Johnny Depp's "From Hell?" Uck! Begone, dark one!!!!