Sacrificing Judgment to the Devil

It's hard to know what to call Him. For awhile I was calling Him Satan because I knew it was His Hebrew title, however just yesterday I discovered he has an actual Hebrew name, Samael. That name is perhaps younger, coming from Kabbalah, and forgive me for thinking the Zohar is a bit of a joke. I read a little of it about 2 years ago and I found it charming, partially because it reminded me of how I would read the Torah stories in the dull middle parts of synagogue services, but also it was like reading a really good fanfic off of Archive of Our Own. The Zohar is that blatantly anachronistic it's hard to believe it was ever confused as truly Biblical. It may as well have an author's intro where he thanks his beta reader.

Snark about the Zohar aside, maybe it does have some truth about The Devil to it. But when I asked Him if he was older than the Snake in the Garden of Eden, His silence greeted me. It wasn't mean or scoffing, what I would have expected from the King of Arrogance I first met in my bedroom several months ago, wearing plastic horns and with an alcoholic drink ready as offering. I realized from it that I knew the answer already, that He was from somewhere much prior. He soon afterward told me that He felt saddened by the question because it was like talking to His amnesiac lover.

I don't think it was the first time we had had such a conversation. I read Darragh Mason's Song of the Dark Man on recommendation from one of my friends who has worked with the Devil before. A great book that I really struggled with. Several accounts from his followers, including one who identifies as his wife (one of), describe their connection to Him as ancestral. That's not the case with me. He very explicitly said, "In every lifetime of yours, you refuse me" when I told Him I was going to keep reincarnating instead of melding (returning) into the wonderful togetherness he contains.

Yet, maybe it's due to His age—and simply due to the time of year, Cancer season. It was Cancer season when I read the beginning of the Zohar too—that I have since found reconnection with my ancestors and not at the shrine. I made the mistake of asking Him of all spirits if I should give up judgment of other people and well, my dumb ass paid for it. Got it burnt right out of me.

I ended up in the ER over the weekend, dehydrated and high on THC from too little food and too much infused root beer. In between those two states, I was hallucinating and part of the time he was there reassuring me, but it was also very visceral among my terror that what I asked for came with this payment. As the rest of my spirits urged me on to take shelter in the shade of a small tree in the hiking path, I saw the First of Jewish Ancestors. I also saw Inanna, sitting with Venus, and cried out to her about how rejected I felt that she did not come to me unless it was about my gender transition. There was something so reminiscent of my maternal grandmother when she regarded me, promising me that she would "visit more often."

I wave down two men in a cart for water and they wave down a lifeguard. I struggle to make it up another few steps uphill. My mouth and throat are dry like sandpaper. My body is exhausted. I can't feel any of my physical sensors. My non-sobriety is clear by the lifeguard asking me if I had a history of psychological problems and I have to admit with embarrassment what I overly imbibed. When the other lifeguards come, they note between themselves that I did not bring enough water with me.

I end up in an ambulance and experience every single emotion while noticing every single point a person's care could fall through the cracks. I find myself playing the female-bodied fiddle for emotional care and protection. Being able to speak English fluently and having a medical understanding of what's happening allows me to navigate even in this slowed down yet heightened state. I see every point where mistreatment could make someone's care be less effective on an energetic level. I see where being taken care of (even when I'm too terrified to take it, like with the paramedics asking my gender) allows the spirit to thrive more and receive a fairer chance to survive suffering.

My heartrate is escalating and they show this to me on a monitor, which makes it jump even higher. They explain to me that it's a sign of severe dehydration. I am convinced I am going to die because I am pulling everything I have into not passing out. I really, really don't want to go yet and given I'm already seeing spirits I know I'm already in some in between. I can no longer tell if it's my standard liminality or somewhere more dangerous.

Within this, I keep seeing the Jewish Ancestors. I agree to go to the hospital. My housemate trying to meet with me is losing his shit because he actually is at risk of ICE detaining him because he's Mexican and even though he's US-born those bastards don't really care at this point so he's afraid to go out in public. Once he gets there, the Ancestor I share with his Jewish boss pushes me to say, "[Boss's name] doesn't want you to hate her." and goes into relieved silence when he affirms out loud he does not.

I'm playing Jewish shaman in between pissing the gurney and bawling my eyes out because I didn't realize how scared my maternal grandmother must have been the multiple times she was hospitalized leading up to her death. (Though I did make the paramedic who unloaded me from the ambulance smile when I said, "Some people do this more than once? This SUCKS!" before realizing grandmother was part of said people). I feel everything of the mortification of the situation. The fluctuations of my mental state. The lack of control of my bladder. The exhaustion of my body. The bright hospital lights and the lack of privacy other than a curtain. How I can hear other patients and how they also remind me of my grandmother.

Days later, here I am writing this with skin simmering like embers. The paramedics said I'd be ready to work on Monday, but I wasn't. I have kept myself resting in bed because something as simple as being underneath blankets or being exposed to sunlight even underneath long sleeves sets me aflame. I can't do half of what I normally do motionwise, and I'm struck by how eventually age will take my ability again from me if some other form of disability doesn't earlier.

I know it will. I saw the end of my life while in that hospital too. I saw that the fear and confusion of the THC high would become my permanent mental condition in some other hospital many decades from now as I pass away. My main comfort is that I also saw that the only person who matters will be there.

And afterward, tending to the shrine he'll have for me.