A Précis of My Horrors

No persona now. No mask. Just some bare and barren truths about my life, my depression, my anxiety disorder. Anxiety is too weak a word of course. Just some truths about my horrors.

—Two days of hypomanic blogging which garnered me new followers and likes and views of my blog. Then the horrors began. The days, months, years that came before of course were not free of horrors either. But a new season of horror had come, a new arising of horror.

I am frightened that it was in fact hypomania which fueled me those two days. Hypomania and perhaps thus some variety of bipolar disorder would be a new prize in my collection of disorders. I have not contacted my psychiatrist about the possible hypomania as my therapist has repeatedly encouraged me to do. I do not want new pills to take. I do not want to have yet another disorder in my brain, yet another mental illness. So I do nothing, irrational, quite paralyzed by fear.

I sit here in paralysis unable to force myself to move for hours at a time. I neglect showering, brushing my teeth, eating, even going to the bathroom because I simply cannot move. Trash accumulates in the kitchen where mold grows on a long unwashed bowl. Clutter clots the living room and bedroom. My apartment is an embarrassment, a folly, a horror to me. I am out of food that does not require preparation and I do not visit the grocery store so I sit here, pangs of hunger arising and then vanishing again into nothingness. Some days I neglect sleep. Some days I sleep most of the day and night, waking for an hour or two. During my waking hours I generally do either literally nothing, sitting staring into nothingness while I wait for the horrors to pass, or I watch television shows on my computer. Occasionally I chat with friends, friends I have never met in real life, on Facebook.

Two days ago I thought I was going mad. My friend Stephane typed these words to me:

I wish I could just take the hurt away and make everything better

I cried — because no one had said such sweet words to me for years. Crying made things a little better. For a while. I was chatting with Stephane while fearing that I was becoming insane or already was insane. The fear was unbearable. I typed to my friend quickly, frenetically, in an effort to ease the pain, the fear, in an effort to express it somehow to someone kind enough to listen, or rather to read. Getting it off my chest however did not help. I took a two milligram Xanax and two capsules of Neurontin. In about an hour my terror had subsided into the background. Now I knew why I feared and whence the terror. I had been suffering a panic attack, a new species of panic attack with no physical symptoms and no fear of death but instead a fear or rather a certainty of madness. Now I attempt to take the Xanax-Neurontin cocktail every six hours because Xanax is effective, according to Wikipedia, for about six hours. As I take four two milligram tablets of Xanax every day taking this cocktail every six hours is practical, sensible, and feasible.

—I was going to type, to tell you so much more, but my mind wanders and clouds. I wish I could tell you the truth about mental illness, my mental illnesses, my major depressive disorder, my anxiety disorder, and now, I fear, a possible bipolar disorder although this remains undiagnosed and, I hope, spurious. But I can’t express it to you, I can’t convey it in words. And why would you, my dear readers, even want such a thing conveyed to you? You have no reason to want such a thing.

I am a powerful sorceress — when I am well. Even now I have spirits that protect me while I am unable to protect myself. My therapist knows all about my sorcery and my experiences with spirits, magick, and so on. She does not think these things madness. Rather she thinks my madness hinders my powers in these arenas. I believe she is correct.

Was it wise to attempt a précis of my horrors? I am also infinitely weak. Was it wise to air this fact to the entire Internet? Will I lose face before my small but beloved readership? I do not know the answers to these questions. Fortunately I do not care about face and I am either wise or a fool and cannot change which one I am, whichever that may be.

I value the truth. I value the minority, the unloved, the despised, the Other. I am mentally ill. Therefore I have attempted to tell you the truth about the unloved minority which is comprised of the mentally ill, we who are most certainly Other. If you have read this broken account I hope you have learned something or have otherwise profited from your reading of it. Much love to you. —Rachel Izabella


Hymn to Hekate III

O my Goddess
either’s beloved
a mine and Mine
let me climb worlds’ heights
so high
I see glimpses of Your dark mind
and blinding light
not wallow in the mud
as now
as swine

O my Lady
let me be Your mystic
see hear at times
You alone
no interference of the
clamorous rabble of
lesser spirits
f humankind’s psychic whine

O Hekate
beauty endless and fine
let be be Your horse and You my
Rider terrible and tender
see flakes of Your infinity
contain in me
flakes of You my Mystery
no need to flee
the pressure
the closer intensity
as ruminants at approach of the lion

Rachel Izabella P.
4 November 2013

Strong Words

Mammoth with Girl Hunter

Following the advice of Matt Cardin, author of the ebook A Course in Demonic Creativity, a free download by the way, I usually make myself write about a page (he suggests two but I manage one) of whatever the heck comes to mind first thing in the morning. A couple of mornings ago I wrote this. I read it to a friend and he liked it and asked me if I would type it up and email it to him. I thought just maybe somebody else would get something out of it too. Words have much power. —May your words/magic be strong.

No I will not be tamed — I will not be broken — I shall stand — I shall stand tall & proud — I am strong & I have a great power within me. I will awaken that power and I will extend that power to conquer & know myself & to change the world around me. All shall be in accord with my innocent & righteous will. I surrender not but instead I rise. No white flag, no arms in the air — I fight. I get my highs from spirit work, from devotion, from magic, and not from nicotine or alcohol. From creation & self-creation and not from self destruction. No more to lie down in darkness, no more to cleave to the dust but rather I fly, I sore, I touch the Sun & my strength is renewed like the eagle’s.

And my mind again shall be clear, even pellucid, like a bottomless pool hidden in the mountains that none has yet laid eyes on. I know, I will, I dare, I keep silence. I am at peace with all the universe — in solitude & silence, in the human world, in the spirit world, in all places, in all circumstances, I am at peace with myself and with all things.

So mote it be. Amen

First Freelance Writing Job: Blog Sits Idle


The blog lives, I just haven’t been able to write for it lately. I got my first freelance writing job ever not long ago, and the deadline is Sunday and I’m not finished. I don’t want to screw this up. I’m going to drink coffee, apply some Road Opener Oil to the palms of my hands, put my Pure Luck Lightning Glyph (from Jason Miller’s Financial Sorcery) in my pocket, and get at it.

Back soon. Much love. —Rachel Izabella

PS — This is my 200th entry here. Who would have thought?



It is false that the grave has no victory
It is true that death has no sting
For I will lead you to live again
To the grave again
And to die

All the times of your darkest darks
The kill of the most poignant of pains
If then you dared some
Wildest gnosis
Acceptance equal to these and more
That was My tenderest embrace

Then and now are all spaces
All places turned liminal strange
Between the proton and neutron
Betwixt the quark and the quark
I arise without end
I am the world’s bones and
I am the tree of life and death
Axis Mundi is My name

I am the blade sharp to divide
Flesh from flesh
Flesh from soul
Soul from spirit
These too are roads and crossroads
I cut them
I breathe free for
I am the breath of the world
Say my name
It is Anima Mundi

Every flaw in every space
Every sob of every pain
I am hidden there for
My name is Most Lovely
Allwheres I dwell so allwheres is beauty and
The heart of all is beauty
Thus all things are redeemed so
Say my name for
It is Savior

I am the keeper of the four way crossroads for
I am the Goddess of death
I am the keeper of the three way crossroads for
Death is but an in between
You do not know
It is again to seek My beauty
That you awake again
So say My name, say it now
It is Psychopompos
My name, sing it from your broken hearts
It is Resurrection

It is for You we wake
That we taste again of beauty
Serpent flower in the heart of fear
Beauty whelming all but beauty
Tender Girl
Infinite Goddess
Our tears stream for You
Our sobs sing for You
We love you unbeknownst but
Else would be but empty world
Therefore we psalm Your name
A final time
Trembling and fanatic

Hekate Creatrix

—-Rachel Izabella Parker, 17 aprilis 2013

the Valentines: The L.A. Diaries, pt. I

the Valentines: The L.A. Diaries, pt. I.

Because I can’t sleep I just reread the above post on Ryan Valentine’s blog burn-victim.blogspot.com. It’s maybe the truest and most gut-wrenching piece I’ve ever read on spirit-work, in this case meaning demonic evocation. I certainly can’t write like this man can.

You may have nightmares tonight, might be scared to be alone in the dark, but it’s totally worth it. —Rachel

The Blog is Dead, Long Live the Blog

I let the blog die for a few months. So what? I’m under no obligation. But the interest expressed in it (two whole comments today) is causing me to reconsider its quick demise.

On FaceBook months ago I promised my friends an entry on three magical ways to cure or ameliorate migraines. I never came through, never made good on that promise. Expect that entry soon. Also I may write about how it went, coming out to my parents. Or that may be too personal, I don’t know yet. Suffice it to say that it went very well. If someone had told me it would go the way it did I’d never have believed them.

A lot has happened since I last wrote. I have things things I need to get out of my system. Expect more embloggery soon, and till then may the Gods be with you, for They are god.

Magic Isn’t Fun Anymore

Magic isn’t fun anymore. I’m on the wrong path. I’m not having fun any more.

Magic isn’t fun any more.

I wrote a poem about it. I won’t expatiate or gall you with self-pity any more than that.

I’ve lost the Word — lost Mystery —
Imagination barren — abiding in Atrophy —
How recover the Angel in the Word? —
When Sun’s a beetle — Earth — a Turd? —
A path I — thought — would gift me the Moon —
Word & World — both sere — clashing Weeds —
Dead stalks in this blazing — Noon —
Dream has reft His very Self from — me — Woods
Call to me — no more — I
I am Poor — I am Poor —
Great Pan is Dead — They say, A Lie —
The Great God Pan — to me I know
Did surely Die —
The Path — but the Path — the very Path I — walk —
Did I — did the Path — did the Daystone stalk
The Great God Pan — and kill? —
Or was it my Will — my Will — my Will? —
The Will of the Will of the Will of the Will —
I know this — the Word is a Corpse — to me —
World without Word — this cannot —
Will not — shall not — Be —
New Paths anew — Seek them without Seek —
Thus — by Chance — again I — and by Grace — may See —

Don’t Fight Your True Will: or, Follow Your Own Crooked Path

February 2011 I was in agony. Every sound, every sight, every moment hurt. And the hurt made me behave like an asshole to my wife and children. I now believe it was entirely because I was slowly, inescapably coming out to myself as a transsexual woman and I fought that truth of who I am so hard.

Early March I packed my truck and left my wife, my children. I went back to the mountains where I’m from. I broke my family’s heart and almost destroyed myself in the process. I’d say it was stupid, useless, but I also believe that — secretly from even myself — I returned to my old home to discover who I really am. I’m a transsexual woman. In part I knew the truth. But I was so scared. I fought it.  Alone, with enormous challenges but surrounded by the sights of my childhood and the melancholy beauty of the Smokey Mountains, I was finally able to come out to myself a few months later.

Sitting on the porch of my new place, my man-cave, I wrote this poem one Spring afternoon. It’s obscure, it follows no rules. A belief in rebirth or metempsychosis is implicit. But, for me at least, it’s visceral. I reread it and I can feel the pain, distantly, again. My recommendation to you is, Don’t do this to yourself! The last two lines say as much.

The good thing is, this story has a very happy ending. Maybe I had to take the pain first and overcome it, which I did, in order to come out to myself as trans. For what it’s worth, here it is:

 When you've not much — And
 Your little agonizes —
 You'll give All up —
 You will cry —
 Keen lost agonies — As I
 Agony of agonies sup —
 Wish for — Any End —
 My beauties tore —
 My loves rent — Me —
 So poor —
 I now flee Moon —
 As Sun before —
 I seek some — Empty Tune —
 Though no End may Be —
 To Raucous Organ's score —

 The Grinder's Inept — But
 Forever the Roar —
 Awls in Ears —
 Infinite Years I'll Prance —
 Words, words — Gut
 Like trout are —
 Infinite years — I Only —
 We only mock some — Dance —
 Aeons, aeons more —

 Gnosis pays Dividend —
 I found, flipped the switch —
 Dark makes — this Sound — Stray
 Dear Friend — And
 Into Grey bend —
 Not Night, not Day —

 Stay your Hand — Let itch
 That envied Itch

Make of it what you will. An object lesson, maybe. If you’re life’s graph paper places you outside the bell curve, that’s OK. As somebody said, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Accept it. Accept it radically.

I came out during an unforgettable all night vigil in July. Five weeks later I moved back to the Piedmont region to be near my children. I thought there was a slim chance my wife would let me be part of their lives. I moved into an apartment that made the tornado-proof trailer I was living in in the highlands seem palatial, it was so bad, but I was a 15 minute drive away from my family. A slim chance, I thought … so I came out to my wife…

And, slowly, something strange happened. —I’m back home again, my real home where I belong—with my wife and children. My wife and I are more in love than we’ve ever been I believe.  I’m home again and my wife and children accept me just as I am: as a woman. I’d not have believed that possible when I first returned to town.

I’ve been full-time about three months. I’ve been on hormones 9 weeks. The morning I voted in the presidential election, two days ago now, I overheard a hushed conversation: “That person’s name is <birthname>?!”  Like they could not believe I was born in a male body.

But I had just showered and cleaned up—and I looked good.