Chasing Spirits: Part 1

Overcoming Crippling Scrupulosity OCD - And Other Types - And My Descent From “Good Christian Girl” to Owning Tarot Cards Guilt-Free

Apr 30, 2026

ONLY Part 1 will be released here on Substack, for visibility. If you want to read the next, please subscribe here:

Trigger Warning: This publication confronts themes of OCD, intrusive thoughts, and disturbing imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Ever since I was a little girl, I can remember looking up at the stars, wondering just what, or who, was up there. I attended Sunday school every week like a good little Christian should, but I always felt like there was something else, something…more. However, the strict Southern Baptist upbringing my parents supplied left little space for any other wisdom or magic to be explored. The feeling of an omnipresent, omniscient god never sat right with me. It felt stifled, constricting, and as self-serving as any other belief system used to control the masses. If I had mentioned this to my mother, especially, I likely would have been excommunicated and abandoned by most of my family.

I have always been much more interested in Indigenous spiritualism as someone mixed, but exploring that culture was never encouraged; I would even go so far as to say that it was discouraged because we were always told we were white and should “act white,” whatever the hell that means. We have always known we are actually Indigenous on my maternal side, from the Arkansas Apache forced into Oklahoma under the Little Arkansas Treaty, and my mother claimed our heritage in private, but no one carried on any traditions, other than our family recipes, in an attempt to survive and thrive in a very white town. Our culture was all but abandoned entirely in one fell swoop - one generation - and I have been clamoring my way back to my roots ever since I can remember.

Reflecting back now with more knowledge and wisdom, I think the fact that I was not allowed to be anything but “white” contributed to the severity of my OCD. I was constantly making sure I was acting and speaking the “white” way so that I wouldn’t be chastised. Deep down, I wondered who I really was and yearned to explore my Indigenous roots - it almost felt like my ancestors themselves were begging me, screaming my name, desperately wanting me to listen. If I brought up my Indigenous heritage in school, I was subject to stereotypical nonsense or told my ancestors “should have fought harder, with better weapons,” as if the “lack of proper tools” justifies genocide. If I said my father’s side was German, I was called a Nazi.

Are you there, God? It’s me...Cammy.

Pinky up, middle down, pinky up, middle down. Over and over until the urge felt satisfied, and I could finally stop.

Because I struggled so much with believing in God and Christianity organically, I developed severe Scrupulosity (Religious) OCD, among other forms. I was fighting the notion of the one true god, but, at the same time, being bombarded with Baptist teachings every week, muddying the oceans of my mind. I was told to “let go and let God” in every aspect of life, but where was God when I needed him? Could he tell me why I was being all-consumed with horrific, gruesome visions of the people I loved dying? Would he confirm every “impure” thought or action was actually dooming me further and further to hellfire?

The intrusive thoughts were one thing, but compulsions added a whole new layer of obsession. I remember being reprimanded at the ripe old age of 5 for “flipping someone off.” I had lifted my ring finger, not my middle. Unfortunately, the teacher was told, and I was punished, even though I had never even heard that phrase before. My mother chose to tell me that it simply means you hate someone and isn’t kind, so in my mind, pointing my middle finger down to ol’ Satan would make sure he knew I meant business. I have no idea where I got the notion that lifting my pinky meant “I love you,” but that’s what I went with.

I began obsessively doing hand signals I determined meant “I love God, and I hate the Devil.” I stuck my pinky up to mean “I love you” to God and pointed my middle finger down to tell that pesky little Devil down there my soul was not for sale. I also wanted God to know that I would never, ever say I hated Him. Of course, none of this was rational, but I was powerless to resist the urge, and would make my hands sore repeating the compulsion. I would do this habitually, in the car, in my room, in public - pinky up, middle down, pinky up, middle down. Over and over until the urge felt satisfied, and I could finally stop. I would pray for the thoughts and compulsions to disappear, but received no answer, no cure.

I entered the summer before Junior year having never been kissed - cue ‘Never You Mind’ by Semisonic.

As I grew older, I tried my hardest to immerse myself in the faith like everyone else around me, but I couldn’t make the connection, no matter how much I wanted to - if not for me, for my parents. The last thing I wanted to do was shake the family tree with some good old-fashioned BlAsPhEmY🤪. I took on the role of the Good Little Christian as much as I could, but it felt like a noose tightening around my neck, eager to snuff out my spirit. Why would it matter to God who someone loves? How is it that everyone is able to ignore certain “rules” but not others? Why does this book cause so much devotion that people are willing to murder for its poorly interpreted cause? If he can perform miracles, where is he, and why isn’t he doing so now? So many questions, so few tangible answers.

I attempted throwing myself into religion as a teen by going to the local mega church for weeknight events, but the “Christian” people I hung out with in my teen years were no better than anyone my parents would have kept me away from, and that eventually turned into going with my boyfriend at the time to fool around in the parking lot when his mommy was inside, working. I was obviously nailing my role as a good girl. I entered the summer before Junior year having never been kissed - cue ‘Never You Mind’ by Semisonic - and having no idea what a blow job was. I exited Junior year having done all but full penetration.

<iframe data-testid="embed-iframe" style="border-radius:12px" src="

Because I had “given in to my urges,” I often felt massive waves of guilt for the things I had done outside of marriage. I would call myself the most degrading words I could muster and tell myself all the ways I was going to suffer in hell. I remembered our pastors would always say, “Forgiveness is always given, and you need only ask.” So, I decided telling my mother everything I had done was the best course of action, so I could continue to have post-life access to the big guy upstairs. When I told her I had done sexual things with 2 boyfriends, she went ballistic on me. She called me a whore and belittled me, and it took me years to even tell her that the second boyfriend’s advances were not consensual.

In the midst of my complete and total crash-out, I was going off the rails. I no longer really cared if I lived or died, and my home life was anything but calm. My parents were huge fans of whipping with belts or slapping so hard that they left handprints. I was ruminating over every guilty thought I had, every time I “talked back” to my parents and was punished, every time my ex had pressured me or forced his way in. I was spiraling, and fast. I was desperately searching for love in all the wrong places, with all the wrong “men.“ It was that summer before Senior year when I found my soulmate. I was incredibly lucky he was where I landed, rather than with someone reminiscent of my exes.

We began spending as much time together as possible, and quickly fell in love. We had been dating for less than 5 months when I got pregnant with our daughter. This added a whole new layer to the OCD I had already been suffering from for well over a decade. I began obsessing over the fact that I was now going to be an unwed mother, and if something were to happen to me, I wouldn’t be able to see my daughter in the afterlife. I constantly envisioned something happening to her, or to me, while pregnant, and that continued well past her birth day. It started to take over most of my thoughts, and I couldn’t focus on anything but the ritualistic behavior I had developed to prevent it - in my illogical mind.

Read my previous article here.

My OCD often manifested first as anxiety, then anger. If I weren’t able to complete a ritual, finish a count, or check something for the 23rd time, I would seethe with rage. An interrupted ritual or task is incredibly distressing, and not being able to see it through would often cause me to burst into uncontrollable fits of yelling. This made my relationship with my now-husband incredibly difficult to navigate, as neither of us truly knew how to communicate. We were babies doing our very best to raise our own, and we had no idea the hardships we were about to face together as we entered parenthood with no training wheels and in severe poverty.

Pregnant, Fearful, and Guarded

Pregnancy was quite difficult because of the chronic illnesses that were already working behind the scenes in my body. I was in a tremendous amount of pain carrying the extra weight, and my frame was so small that I had trouble even containing her little 7 lb 6 oz body. When it came time for me to deliver, it took me over an hour and a half of pushing and an episiotomy, ass to vagina, leaving me so incredibly traumatized I thought my poor womanhood would never recover. The first two nights went by quickly, with my then-fiancé and me taking turns holding her as she slept. Neither of us could bring ourselves to put her down nearly the entire time we were in the hospital.

Once we arrived home with our new precious bundle of joy, the disturbing visions once again came rushing in like a tidal wave of torment, eager to deplete the pure elation of her arrival. I began envisioning both her and her dad, dead on the pavement in pools of coagulated blood. A car accident. A mass shooting. A freak incident. It didn’t matter. All I knew was I couldn’t get those images out of my mind - the nearly-iridescent hairs on her little head caked in crimson, her father’s much the same.

A massive torrent of emotion overwhelmed me. If I lost them, would they go to heaven? Were they saved? Was I? I wondered if I was “good enough” to go with them. I often thought that my past actions, such as having a baby out of wedlock, would bring forth a web of darkness to envelope my soul, preventing me from eternal life with my beloved two. It was in moments like these that I would retreat from everyone and everything, refusing to let anyone in on the nightmares filling my head. I didn’t want to burden anyone else with the doom and gloom swirling around me, and I had no way of knowing that it wasn’t something everyone else struggled with - so I prayed. I prayed again. And again. And again.

Friends, I asked, but I did not receive.

Each new day of parenthood brought about fresh anxieties. When she slept, I worried I would lose her in the middle of the night, like we lost my baby cousin as a child. When she started eating baby food, I worried about her choking, me unable to save her. When she started crawling, I worried she’d somehow stand in her crib and topple out, even when I knew she was still incapable. Finally, when she started walking, I feared I would lose her to elopement, completely unaware of just how real that fear would actually grow to be when she got a bit older. Behind all those fears was one more, still lurking - the fear of her going to hell. If she did, it would be because of my own failures, because I let God down.

I realize now how truly insane that sounds, but at the time, that was my reality. I had been sheltered from certain aspects of life necessary for me to grow and learn, but never shielded from the things that traumatized me most. For example, as far back as I can remember, my mom would have me in her room, watching many a true crime series with her. She seemed to have developed her own obsession, likely a trauma response to my grandmother being held hostage and raped at gunpoint shortly after my grandfather’s death. I don’t think she has ever really confronted that. I recall watching the coverage of cases involving children with her, such as the JonBenet Ramsey case and the two oldest Routier boys, a case my future father-in-law had fairly close ties to, eventually working on the town’s City Council and being friends with those working the case.

The depictions and imagery of death in these shows affected my ability to think rationally about risks and dangers. I was convinced that if I stepped out of my house alone, I was absolutely going to be kidnapped and killed - incredibly unhealthy thoughts for a very young child. Every little noise outside in the dark terrified me, and every gust of air that whispered through the house sent shivers down my spine. I was afraid of my own shadow, convinced that my death and eternal damnation were right around the corner, waiting for me to drop my defenses and take me then and there.

When I became a parent, that fear was magnified times infinity. I was overprotective, a true helicopter parent. I didn’t want to allow my daughter to be taken anywhere without me, stay overnight away from home, or even be held away from my sight. I needed to feel like I was in complete control of whether she was safe, even though I couldn’t possibly be. “Life, uh...finds a way,” as they say, and a trip our little family took to Corpus Christi right before she turned 3 was about to slap me so hard with that reality that I’d never mentally recover - not fully.

Thank you for reading A Daily Dose!

Please consider subscribing or donating to support my ability to continue doing this work.

You can also become a paid member of my site to gain access to my Discord groups, EXCLUSIVE pet care tips and advice - including topics I am covering in my book - a monthly book club, writing accountability, and more!

Learn more

The next part of this series will dive in to more of my adult years, including discovering both my and my daughter’s neurodivergence, going to therapy, getting more in touch with my Indigenous culture, and overcoming my OCD symptoms enough to be able to purchase a Tarot deck guilt-free - no Hellfire for me. 💜

A Daily Dose With Cammy