When I Asked Satan Into My Heart

I was a teenager when I asked Satan into my heart.

It didn’t go as planned.

I had spent much of the last few years fighting depression and suicidal ideation. No matter how many times I prayed, nothing happened. Jesus never helped me. So I had given up on Jesus. 

But Satan? Maybe he, unlike Jesus, would answer my prayers. Maybe he would fix me, even if it cost my soul. So it was worth a shot.

I didn’t know how to pray to Satan, though. I had spent my whole life praying to Jesus, so this was completely foreign territory. Inspired by the few movies I watched that had some occult elements (The Dark Crystal, Labyrinth, pretty tame PG stuff), I turned off the lights in my room. I lit five candles and arranged them in a… pentagram…ish shape. I grabbed a chef’s knife from my family’s kitchen, so I could cut myself in case Satan asked for a blood offering.

Then I folded my hands and prayed.

“Satan, please enter my heart. I will commit my life to you if you will answer my prayers.”

Nothing.

I tried again. This time I renounced Jesus specifically, by name.

Nothing.

I tried again.

And again. 

And again.

Nothing.

I decided to commit it to paper. I wrote a poem called, “A Summoning.” Because I was summoning the Lord of Darkness. I even said “fuck” in the poem, so I was serious.

Still nothing.

No flickering candles. No ominous voice. Absolutely nothing. My heart and brain weren’t fixed. My soul was not stolen. I was not possessed by even a single demon.

Instead, I was overwhelmed with the sense of being truly alone in the world. Yahweh was silent. Jesus was silent. The Holy Spirit was silent. Even Satan was silent.

Maybe I truly was broken.

All I knew for sure was this: I was alone. So. Very. Alone.

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