My spiritual practice suddenly seemed to me frivolous and meaningless. I looked at my things and I detested them. I loaded up several boxes of paraphernalia and gave it in to charity shops. (Probably making some local fledgling witches very happy!) I sold loads on ebay. I only kept a few key items. I took a car full of books to the local second hand book shop and sold them for a fraction of their value, only keeping a few titles that I knew I could not bear to part with. I gave the more valuable books away to friends. I deleted a witchcraft blog I had been keeping. I was paring things down with a view to leaving this path altogether.
I don't know what I thought any of this would solve, but I guess it made me feel better because it gave me control over something in my life, at a time when so much was out of my control. Maybe not unlike anorexics decide to stop nourishing their bodies in an effort to control something, I decided to stop nourishing my spirit. Spiritual anorexia. Now that I think about it, that seems an apt assessment.
I kept blogging through most of this, funnily enough. It was a habit, and in some ways, it was a mask.
Several months later, hoping to spark some sort of refreshed interest, I started the Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids course. But then, I found trying to read and absorb the materials made me feel drained and, dare I say it, bored. I decided that I couldn't cope with any of it, so I stopped blogging and stopped reading the course materials. I keep getting packets from OBOD which I file away in a folder. I will return to it at some point.
I just feel like looking at the cards again. I find myself looking at blue in the sky. The other day, I noticed the buds on the rowan trees. I tried to reject the cards. I blamed them for not telling me this thing was going to happen. I blamed my spiritual practice for not keeping me safe. When I was betrayed in life, I turned my back on these friends. I needed to do that for a while. It's hard to cope with the places cards can take you, when you're so wounded. It's hard to reconcile that so much was hidden that they never revealed. It's hard to find the energy to string words together, when there seems no point to anything any more.
Healing takes a lot longer than you think. I remember reading that when you've had a trauma, it can take up to two years to even start to feel normal again. For me it's been 18 months. So maybe writing on this blog today is a sign I'm starting to turn that corner.