So, as the beloved reader will soon find, I am not a blogger.
Like, I DON'T blog. At all. Well, I guess I do now. I have no idea why. Perhaps my ego and brain damage have clashed in some cataclysmic love-bump that resulted in the bastard child of my insanity called "The Hedgewitch Chronicles"? I guess you and I will find out together.... What fun!
More than likely you've read another blog. A much better, wittier, laughable blog. More than likely the writer of said blog is an obviously self-aware author in the making who doesn't have it all together, but the glue that holds what they DO have together is a compound mixture of ground funnybone and the vomit of a sarcastic hyena. Well, as you can see now, I am no such mixture. Perhaps you can liken my humor to a child; screaming and reaching for the dangling sterling necklace around its mothers neck, but knowing all the while it will never make contact. But hey, the stubborn and deluded mind of a child is such that it won't easily be deterred. I am that such infant.
You may know me as Valkyrie, Valk if preferred. I am a young (many would argue too young) Hedgewitch in the making with mama-trauma and 2 years of loose witchcraft study under my belt. I make it a point to try every tea I can afford safely, and teach myself to brew said tea to perfection. As with all things I "self teach", I become very impatient and either give up, or cut corners. Such is not the way with Hedgewitchery, however. This is a path I've sought for nearly 2 years, and it will always be right for me. You know, when you feel that click and nobody can even talk to you about it due to the fact that it's all personal, all yours, all inside? Hm... There I go again, not being able to explain myself. Let's start from the beginning.
I was born and raised in the non-town of Syracuse, Indiana. Growing up in a podunk neighborhood well on the outskirts of said non-town, I had a fairly country upbringing. Rescuing baby animals of all types (holding a rabid chipmunk, man was I a ditz), namely pained rabbits and field mice. Playing with the Garter snakes that would poke out of the Summer hill by the lake. Hollowing out a snow drift to make an igloo, surprisingly warm and roomy. Then draping the willow branches over the fallen willow trunk to create a water-proof fort that held up very well under a white Spring downpour. Canoeing from age 8 out to the middle of the neighborhoods muddy private lake to swim fearlessly around the boat, at times even swimming back to shore. Running up and down the dirt road barefoot. Ahh, sounds like a great childhood, eh?
My mother and my father were high-school sweethearts. So sweet on each other that condoms served no purpose, apparently. When my mother was 18, she conceived of me with my 18 year old father, classmate of hers. Her own mother, my dear grandmother, being strongly Protestant, my mother was not given the option of abortion that she wanted. So, before her graduation and as she was barely 19, I was born. My mother was disgusted at my existence, of course, and continued to be until... well, I'll tell you when she no longer IS disgusted. My father has tried to connect with me, but due to my lack of real emotion towards him and his lack of connection towards me, all have been futile. He's admitted that he never quite felt as a father towards me, an honesty I respect him for. He is a Master Sergeant in the United States Air Force, loves anime and games, eats and exercises right, and has a toddler with his wife in England. I wish that family better than I was given, and hope to see my new brother someday.
I can't recall the first time my mother lost her temper. It was sometime before I turned 4, and steadily climbed in how often and intense the loss of temper would escalate. At first, she would spank me with a bare hand and send me to my room or a corner. This was fine. Unlike today, in the early 90's one could hit their child without it being called abuse. Well, when I was about 6 I didn't understand our times-tables. Yep, I had times-tables at 6. Frustrated at my lack of understanding of this literally "elementary" homework, she threw a salt and pepper shaker through the wall and screeched at me like a harpy out for blood. Woops. As I aged, these occurrences highlighting how high-strung, psychotic, and completely bat-shit this woman was began to become more frequent, and less controlled on her part. For fear of her senseless wrath, I began to lie.
She was beautiful. Thin. Fashionable. She wore a mask, from her own elementary years, that made her appear almost human to those who wouldn't know better. I knew better. When someone was telling a dramatic story that needed a listening ear, my mother was always first to play the part. And oh did she play well. To the outsider, her nodding and sympathetically emotionless "awww"s and "yep.... uh huh"s seemed pretty honest. Becoming, even. What a great listener! This woman has obviously had some real life events, and could not possibly be pretending to have emotions! Those are her unchanging, eternal ways of saying "get to the point already, it isn't always about you." How do I know this? She would say this when that person left.
She is the 80's high-school bitch personified eternally in a tanned-beyond-repair, leathery, clown-makeup, cougar shell. I have diagnosed her with Psychopathy. I may not be a medical professional. But of this, I am a professional. When you are raised by a cynically psychotic individual, you will always know. And you don't forget one terrifying moment. Such as being nearly, intentionally, kicked down flights of stairs and being kicked in the side. Being called fat, being forced to exercise an adult pace daily and weighed every morning to monitor weight gain. At the age of 11. And so, about food and schoolwork, I would lie. "No I did not drink the French Vanilla Coffee Mate creamer!" "I swear I didn't eat the peanut butter!" Gross, right? When you are allowed a package of Beef Instant Ramen a day and put on a ski machine (look it up, funny thing) for an hour a day, including a full day of school with P.E. classes for your entire existence thus far, things like coffee creamer and peanut butter start to look like hot chocolate and beef ribs to a kid.
And of course I lied about it.
That was my only chance of possible freedom for a few more days, until she found something new to be unhappy with about me. With never once given a compliment by anyone (as introverted and damaged as I was, I had no friends. Was only bullied until I dropped out of highschool) and being constantly told with so much honesty and anger that I was a piece of fermented shit, I grew up never doubting that I'd not amount to a thing. That all of my efforts would always result in a blank slate. So, I didn't do homework. I read books as an escape, keeping me sane and open-minded in the wake of a diseased childhood. About my schoolwork, I'd of course lie about doing it every day. I was never offered help, and otherwise had no motivation to do something that would seemingly amount to nothing in the end. So I'd do my best to stay off of my mothers toes, never questioning her, until the report cards came. And then, bye bye Summer. And any feeling I once had that previous year. That was alright. Never much cared for Summer anyways.
Every few years or so, my father would visit from his Air Force stations. He was usually over seas, and had my three half-brothers to visit as well in Colorado. He didn't know a thing about girls, and so we both found it exceedingly uncomfortable to be left along with each other. We often times found ourselves feeling and thinking the same, as for some odd reason even without his influence, I developed as the female version of him. I have not a single feature of my mothers, from tits to toes. But my fathers side. Every nuance. From tits to toes. Something that did not protect me from Guam.
When he and his then-new English wife were stationed in Guam, my father decided it was time to see if he could connect to me NOW. So, at age 12, I was flown off to stay there for a year. I was, in a cliche, forced to jog every evening with a step monitor to see how many steps I'd taken in what time. I was forced to snorkel, when I had a phobia of sharks. I stuck with my book reading, something this parent actually loved about me as he adores books as well, but was once more grounded from reading as a punishment for not doing homework. So, I continued to lie about school. And was punished accordingly. At some point, my stepmother called me a selfish cow (which I couldn't help but find so outlandish and amusing, she being British and I being a 12 year old American brat). My father being a higher-up in the Forces, he was not used to nor tolerated an obstinate person in any form. And so, he demanded that I addressed him "Yes Sir!" and my stepmother "Yes Ma'am!".
When I wasn't so compliant, I was sent off into the off-base jungle to a place called Sanctuary. Like a group foster-care for juvenile delinquents. My roommate was a pregnant 13 year old Chamorro local who was in for knifing a girl in school. The rest were no different, and I was treated harshly and disdainfully for being a Military brat, white, and introvert. After all, I wasn't there for knifing someone for their raisin muffin. I was in there because my father didn't know how to raise me. I was there for 4 months. Every day that I'd come back from school, I'd be full body searched for drugs and weapons. The night that I finally went back to the States, was the first time I had seen my father and my stepmother in weeks. They had said they would take me out a month before, and had come in and left. Not taking me with them. In the time of all of this abuse, I had ripped out my hair. Hair by hair. A condition often afflicting the emotionally stressed adolescents. When I was 16, this habit stopped. The night I left, I was sleeping on the cot. Suddenly, a light entered the room and it was my stepmother, packing my things. she said I was leaving back to Indiana. Her actual opening line was "I am Luke Skywalker, and I am here to save you", a reference that was then lost on my primal and emotionally shut-down self. I was silent, compliant, and took the 21 hour flight back. I was greeted with a hug by my cousin, and walked off into the well-missed Winter of Fort Wayne, Indiana.
That year, my mother and I moved in with my stepfather in Cadillac, Michigan. For the next 5 years, as I attended and went through highschool, my mother proceeded to pick up her abuse with renewed forced and began poisoning my gruff stepfather against me. At the time, and then, they are not married. But they have been dating for 10 years. They hate each other. He sees her as a raging bitch-monster from Hell, and she sees him as a sarcastic douche who sees her as a raging bitch-monster from Hell. I wish I could tell both of them that they BOTH are delusional and disturbingly alike. Pretty, fat-hating, emotionless demons sucking all of the life from any who are unlucky enough to cross their paths. But, at least towards each other, they're starting to get it. When my hair started to grow back from me pulling it out previously, my stepfather saw a tool of control. Whenever he was angry at me, for reasons beyond my comprehension, he would drag me by the roots of my hair and scream into my face. This he did for years.
This is where i finally end my tale of angst, moving on to the title of this blog. This horrible, unread blog. That I shouldn't be writing. But will anyways. Eesh.
In the beginning of my path, I had been out of the abusive situation for a couple of years. I was a few days from turning 19. I was living with my friend... M, let's call her. She lived with her mother-in-law and husband. She was/is my age. She is a witch. Not Wiccan, just... a witch. Crystals, spells, nature. The whole shebang. Her mother-in-law is also a witch. So, needless to say, I learned of Witchcraft! I had never heard that some would actually call themselves witches, and thus knew nothing about it other than the wizened crones of yore from Hallowe'en. We've all been there. Of course, I found the idea of magick to solve your problems FASCINATING. Just what this damaged, depressed, angsty girl needs... eh? Eh. Had a guy who crushed my heart for over a year. Did a cliche: love spell. Whether you believe it is wrong or not to do manipulation magick of another soul, it backfired on me pretty damn hard. And I recognized that. I swore not to do spells until I had studied properly. So for a year, I studied daily. To fill in the emptiness and hopelessness of my existence. Within a few months, I'd gone through basic year-and-a-day studies. Albeit I've never figured myself a Wiccan.
5 days before my 19'th birthday. Oestara. At the time, I had no idea it WAS Oestara. That night, had been the night I chose the path of a witch. Not yet Hedgewitchery, specifically. I had a very powerful, lucid vision that night in which the Tree of Life, an Ash, spoke to me. The tree was as large as the sky. I could not perceive its branches, nor its roots. Only the trunk. And on the trunk, were two faces out of the bark. Wizened, detailed faces of two ancient men. One stern and proud, the other kind and knowing. But both looked at me with the same emotion, albeit different sets of face from two different personalities. One said, wordlessly, "I am proud, as you should be." And the other, "You are loved, and you are on the right path. Good job." There was more, both the vision and the day symbolizing Resurrection and rebirth. But as any spiritual experience, it was very personal and will not be covered currently. The vision, as have been the ones I've had since, was lucid. And I will never forget, nor deny, those experiences. The divine set me on my path, all I did was gather the kindling. They lit the spark that started the flame. And for that, I am eternally warm and thriving.
A few more couch-surfing houses later and here I am. Still picking myself up, but many times more knowledgeable and spiritual than I was. Going on 2 years of daily study of this path and many others within energy and magick, I stumbled upon the name for the path I've already created for myself: Hedgewitchery. And although I cannot choose when to Ride the Hedge just yet, the time will come. But as of yet, I am not ready for such discipline. I will stick to the visions for now. I will include pictures of my altar, in all of its organized-chaos, and note that most of the items I have made/grown myself, or found.
Thank you, beloved reader, for sticking with me through this obnoxiously long and badly written first blog post. I hope to post more, without a Valkyrie-101 history lesson on my angst. From spells, potions, meditations. To my first trance experience, herbology, and general shit that a practical witch will experience in the modern world.
Blessings, and take care!
-Valkyrie
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