The Witch.

I knew she was a witch the moment I laid eyes on her. Her eyes were mysterious and her dresses were hippy-ish.

Her hair was a hot mess. And she always smelled like herbs. And that necklace. She always wore the same long, dangly, purple rock around her neck.

She rearrange her large office every other week. And had a lot of strange looking books with strange titles. Too many candles. But not enough light.

I imagined she had a bazillion cats at home. She looked like a cat lady.

But she always smiled. And I could tell it was genuine. The kind of smile that lets you know that a person sees you. Really sees you.

I can't remember if I ever smiled back. But she always smiled.

When I cried, she cried.

I hated that my mother had dragged me into that old building and up that squeaky staircase, just to leave me with a witch for an hour...

To fix me.

Because something was horribly wrog with me. It scared everyone I knew.

My sister wouldn't talk to me, my mother couldn't look at me, my step-father scowled at me, and my father (when he called every week) tried to pretend nothing was wrong.

My teachers wanted to flunk me, just to get me out of their classes. And my best friend had no comment.

"No comment?!" I had yelled at her after I'd confessed my secret to her.

"Well, it's not like you're insane, or have some incurable disease, right? You're still the same old Mandie I knew..." She looked me in the eye. "But God can fix you, right?"

Why would God want to fix me? I had thought.

So once a week, I sat completely still on the witch's couch, answering strange questions while she jotted down notes.

I should probably explain that the witch was a licensed counselor.

"Why do you cut?" The witch would ask.

I wouldn't look her in the eye. I always kept my gaze locked on her bookshelf where she kept her weird books. "It makes me feel better."

"Why?" The witch was a prior.

I sighed. "It's like a release. You know, like when you open the lid of a soda that's been shook up?" I looked at her.

"How do you think we can fix this?" The witch's pen was poised above her notebook, ready to jot down my response.

"What if I'm un-fixable?" I looked back at her bookshelf.

"God doesn't make un-fixables."

Wow. I thought. What a strange witch.

Everyone I knew from church had told my mother that I wasn't really saved and that I had a demon.

That I was pocessed by a demon... Yeah.

My Christian friends avoided all contact with me. It was like I had leprosy.

People tried convicing my mother to send me to a juvinile mental center.

I am a former self-mutilater because I held pain deep down inside. But I'm pround to say that on April fourth I will be celebrating six years of recovery.

God doesn't make un-fixables.

A witch taught me that.