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