Yesterday I Got Called a “Spiritual Rapist”

I got called a “spiritual rapist” for the first time in my life yesterday. It came from a woman that I guess had me added on Facebook, but that I had never conversed with before. It caught me off guard, and at first it made me laugh. I didn’t see my empathy or ability to gather information from the collective unconscious as something malicious.

I made a comic about it from the perspective of a self-centered reader (which I am).


Then I remembered roomfuls of uncomfortable occultists, and the way people were sometimes scared to touch me or make eye contact with me. Every person’s response to my confusion was the same:

“I’ve had bad experiences with psychics.”

I always understood, but on a superficial level. I think it is because of my normalization of traumatic events constantly happening to me that I don’t even think about how scared I used to be of one of the psychics in my life. Remembering that time in my past makes me understand why people are sometimes uneasy around people with sensitivities.

I’ve talked about it before in interviews, but my ex is psychic. While we were breaking up, he would call me and finish the sentences that had just escaped my lips, or text responses to things that I was saying or thinking while I was two cities over. He would have dreams about what I was doing, who I was seeing, and how I was feeling. I was very scared of him. I tried everything to keep him out of my head months after we had broken up, but his natural talent in the dream world led to him coming up to my friend at a party:

“Sarah made out with an Australian guy two days ago, huh? I didn’t think Australians were her type.”

I hadn’t told anyone about that. He was dreaming about things that were personal to me, that were none of his business, then confronting them to my friends when he couldn’t reach me physically.

He wasn’t the only guilty party. I tried to gaslight him, I tried to convince him that the information he was receiving was false, hoping to maintain a fucking sliver of privacy.

I tried harder to keep him out, but my boundaries were worse back then. I went so far as to ask my friend to rub her hands on everything we returned to each other through her in a desperate attempt to change the energy attached to the objects.

I’m not really sure what exactly happened that diffused my fear.  All I remember was that he started installing better boundaries and filtering out the information he received about me, and maybe also I stopped caring, stopped being so scared of his sight into my life controlling how I made my decisions. He learned how to manage himself and his abilities better, and I learned that I wasn’t trapped in a security-camera clad cage.

I’ve been drained, fucked with, my head “big-brothered,” sure. But you know what affected me most? Being a little kid and sensing that the man talking to me was thinking about “doing bad things to me,” and not understanding what these “things” were or how to tell my parents.

As I grew older, I got used to feeling “horny” thoughts off of other people. These thoughts didn’t usually have nefarious intentions attached to them. They were relatively safe. Really what was terrifying was glancing into a normal-looking man’s eyes, and feeling a flash of what he wanted to do to you, aggressively, painfully, nonconsensually.  I would then change seats on the bus, or be around the man in fear, watching him act casual, act normal, knowing that there was a tendency there that was a primal warning to me.

My sensitivities were the reason why I wore only baggy clothes for so long, why I wouldn’t let anyone touch me for a couple years, and why I was scared of men for most of my life. I was scared of feeling everyone’s thoughts and emotions.

Most of the time it wasn’t the danger so much as the intrusive overstimulation. I’ve received thousands of flashes of rape and abuse trauma. I’ve been boundaryless against other people’s conditions, turmoil, and past. Sometimes their futures scared me. It used to be almost a relief when other people’s nefarious intentions or negative future events actually ended up occurring.  It gave me a temporary glimmer of validation that I wasn’t crazy, which believe me, is fleeting in a culture where belief in psychics is by no means the norm.

I’ve felt more raped by simply growing up as a psychic, than by anything another psychic has ever done to me and probably will ever do to me.

This isn’t a competition judging which side of this abstract dynamic has it worse. In fact, I heavily doubt that I’m qualified to compare anything in any social context due to my unconventional wiring.

It’s my opinion that psychics being misdiagnosed, unable to manage or understand what’s happening to them, and severely mistreated is a bigger problem than a psychic on the street telling you to call your mother that day, or one you paid to read you seeing something about your inner workings that you don’t like.

Psychics are constantly told that they’re stupid and crazy. You’re rarely bound to meet a psychic that intrudes upon you, especially not to the point where you feel anywhere near as threatened as they’ve felt throughout their entire development. And I say that knowing full well how it feels to be on the receiving, “mundane” end.

Sarah Wreck

Sarah Wreck

Sarah is the creator of the daily comic strip "Shitty Occult Comics", the author of "Slaughter of the Snake" and a facilitator for the purpose of attempting to provide more information resources to sensitive children and adults. She also writes regularly for CVLTNation and Disinformation.
Sarah Wreck