Satanic Symbols Lawl

I'm an Atheistic Satanist, which, to some people, is really fucking scary and weird. I rarely talk about it and, since it's basically just Atheism, I don't really do anything to practice it except indulge in a little well-deserved sin (eg. Ice cream, pre-marital sex, music/films with fuckin' dirty words, GLBT activism). Sometimes I do feel the need to show my pride in my 'religion' of choice and one of those times came around recently when I found some black nail polish and a red nail polish pen. I painted my nails black and drew some Satanic symbols on them - quite expertly, if I do say so myself.

So, I went out into the world: a widdershins cross on each index finger, a Baphomet on each thumb, and an Ankh on my pinky. I honestly hoped that they would go unnoticed but my mother, who was the first person I ran into that day, noticed them right away. Mum is a devout Christian who holds Bible study groups every Monday evening in her home, which is across the street from mine. I don't attend, of course, but I do end up being her resident Bible expert when she has a question about something. I was a Fundamentalist Christian for nearly a decade and know the Bible pretty well. So when she pointed out how much she *liked* my nails, I was surprised. I was pretty sure that her church would have delved into Satanic cults and their ilk but apparently she was either absent that day or just didn't understand what she was seeing. She complimented me, asked how I did it, I laughed nervously and we moved on with life.

A few days later, just as the paint was beginning to chip, I admitted myself to the mental hospital. Now don't jump to conclusions: I was in the middle of a medication change and needed a little extra help to deal with that on top of some unrelated family drama. I became overwhelmed to the point of calling the police on myself and having them escort me safely to my hospital of choice. I know my limits and had enough wits about me to know when it was time to leave the scene for a while. But back to the nail polish:
The nurse who admitted me was terribly compassionate and, as she was interviewing me, she commented on how much she loved my nail designs. I could tell she was genuinely impressed and not just patronising me. I told her where I got the pen that I'd used and she made a little note about it for herself. After the interview, I went back to my room and read the hospital handbook. Why the fuck not? I was bored to death. There was a dress code, apparently: No mid-drift bearing clothing and no Satanic symbols. My room mate was out using the phone so I laughed out loud. The nurse had been Christian too, or at least chose to wear a cross around her neck. I shouldn't have been surprised that she had no idea whatsoever about my nail designs but I really thought that any social group that was vehemently opposed to Satan would at least recognise his calling card.

My room mate in the hospital also noticed my nails and thought they were nice. She was a very devout Mormon and, at one point, I walked in on her while her priest, who had come to visit, prayed over her. Then he asked to pray over me. Since I don't believe in a divine overlord, I consented and it seemed to cheer her up (she was in for severe depression). After he left, she lamented about how The Book of Mormon had been taken away from her as contraband but that she was allowed to keep her Bible. How unsettling. I may not share her views but, in my mind, I felt that she had the right to have whatever comfort that her religious texts might bring. I mean, if they had confiscated my Neil Gaiman books, I'd be pretty distraught too. I encouraged her to request her book back and she eventually won the day. Her mood improved a great deal after that.

My adventure at the hospital ended on my own terms, mainly because I couldn't take any more of my assigned doctors nonsense about how addicted to Xanax he thought I was. My father is an addict: I know addiction when I see it and so does everyone involved in my life. Not a single one of them has accused me of addiction. In fact, they accuse me of not taking my Xanax *enough* because, when I'm climbing the walls in a panic, all anyone wants me to do is calm the fuck down at any cost.
So I came home, wiped the nail polish off my fingers, and wondered why there was even a restriction on Satanic material at the hospital in the first place. It really felt like an unfair prejudgement on their part. Then again, nobody said that life is ever going to be fair.