How I Learned To Love My Post-Demonic Possession Body

Eating for two isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

I’ll be honest: I never thought this would happen to me. I wasn’t one of those sweet little girls who would shove a babydoll up her shirt and say, “Look, Mommy! I’m Satan’s Concubine!” But just a few months ago, there I was: twenty-eight, married, and the unwitting vessel for Asmodeus, Unclean King of the Nine Hells. I hadn’t even finished law school yet!

They say your first one is the hardest — especially if it’s unplanned. But no one really prepared me for what it would be like to be splayed out, nightgown hiked to my hips, in front of three elderly priests howling, “THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELS YOU!” at my writhing pelvis. It may seem like having an exorcism is one of the most beautiful and natural things than a woman can do —and it is! — but I’ll be honest: after twelve hours of labor and deliverance, I wasn’t feeling too #blessed.

(A lot of my girlfriends have asked, so I’ll just tell you: yes, you do vomit all over yourself. And everyone else. While your husband, Matt, cowers under the gurney. So embarrassing!)

Finally, we did it! The Scourge of Tobit exited my flesh envelope at 6:03 A.M., leaving behind an unconscious me, a gibbering Matt, two surviving priests, and an overpowering stench of fish entrails.

What I wish I’d known, though, is that your life doesn’t just go back to how it was before. Even after I was cleared for “normal activities” (carrying groceries, marital relations, attending Father O’Malley’s funeral), I still felt exhausted and self-conscious. If I wasn’t a receptacle for demonic malice, who was I? Could I attend church without scorching? And would Matt forgive me for the awful things “I” said about his mother?

Though it may sound vain, I struggled the most with the changes to my body. I’d never been self-conscious in the bedroom before, but it was hard to get past my new flaws. The stretch-marks on my neck from the head-spinning. The quarter-sized bald spot where I’d ripped my hair out. The bikini-line scars where an unseen claw had scrawled the words “THE SOW IS MINE.” I hadn’t felt this physically wrecked since puberty!

I might have worn sweatpants and a bag over my head for the rest of my life if it wasn’t for Matt. “Babe,” he said, rubbing my back as I wept, “You’ll always be sexy to me.” “BUT YOU SAW ALL THE GROSS STUFF,” I bawled. He stroked my cheek and looked me in the eyes. “Honey, all I saw was the amazing things your body can do. I mean, you carried a whole Demon Lord in there! You levitated! You threw Father O’Malley through a third-story window! When I crawled out of the wreckage, all I could think was, ‘Wow — I had NO idea my wife was so strong.’ You’re basically a superhero.”

And he was right. Once I saw myself through his eyes, I understood: possessed or not, I’m still hot as hell. As women, we’re often told that we can either be an abject host for malevolent energy OR a desirable partner. The most important thing I want potential demonic meat-casings to know is: girl, you’re a modern, independent woman. You can be both.

Also, just don’t play with Ouija boards. At least, not without protection.

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