Kat GraceHello, beautiful soul. If you’re here, you might know the ache of a love that once set your heart ablaze, now flickering out, dimmed by late night screen glows you tried to ignore or psychedelic promises that left you hollow. Many years ago, I lived it—my heart knotted in hope, watching someone I knew slip into shadows I couldn’t follow. This is my story of a nearly four year relationship, marked by his porn addiction and monthly psilocybin journeys that opened doors to entity attachments. It’s about the raw, tender path of walking away to reclaim my life force from unseen parasites his choices let in. This journey was my spiritual awakening. I share this with the clarity of hindsight, the softness of a healing heart, and the truth that leaving can be the fiercest act of self love.
The Cracks Emerge: An Energetic Invasion
We met in a whirlwind—an early spring night, music thrumming, his laugh a beacon slicing through the crowd. He was my safe haven: warm, witty, the kind of person who memorized my quirks and held my hand through life’s chaos. Tender and thoughtful, he once asked about my favorite childhood stuffed animal. A week later, a white polar bear, a near twin of my old companion, appeared—a gesture that felt like love made tangible.
He wrote me poetry, sometimes playful, sometimes achingly romantic, and planned dates where we’d sit beneath the stars, talking until dawn. For a time, our connection was a fire—intimate, alive, a sacred dance of bodies and souls.
But cracks emerged early. He’d tilt his phone away, its glow betraying late night clicks when he thought I slept. Porn. At first, I dismissed it as a harmless quirk in a world that normalizes digital escapes. I cared for him enough to silence my unease, believing our bond could outshine it.
Over four years, those cracks widened into chasms. His porn use wasn’t a habit—it was a compulsion, a secret life that grew bolder, entwined with monthly psilocybin trips. He’d return from those journeys radiant, eyes alight with tales of cosmic revelations, claiming they deepened his feelings for me. But the truth was darker. Through the spiritual lens I now fully trust, these weren’t mere vices—they were energetic invasions. His porn binges invited lust parasites and succubus like entities, feeding on the dopamine surge of his fixation. Psilocybin thinned the veil, welcoming addiction spirits and shadow fragments that clung to his aura. Time and again, he chose these escapes over us, rejecting therapy or spiritual cleansing that might have freed him. His words—calling me his queen, vowing forever—turned to daggers as he retreated to screens and substances, leaving me to face the fallout of his unseen passengers.
Through our soul ties—sacred, energetic cords woven in intimacy—his insidious attachments infiltrated my being. Lustful entities, likely succubi, stirred invasive dreams: erotic assaults that left me waking in shame, violated by shadows carrying his scent. Astral parasites drained my prana, the life force sustaining vitality, leaving me exhausted, with a deep seated sense of unworthiness no rest could heal. Addiction spirits, perhaps earthbound echoes of past users, amplified fleeting urges, whispering compulsions—cravings for intensity foreign to my soul. These were not mere emotional wounds but spiritual attacks, transmitted through intimacy I mistook for love. Our connection, once a sanctuary, became a conduit for these entities to feed, reducing passion to a hollow exchange. Emotionally, his addiction shattered my trust—every “I cherish you” tainted by his other world. Spiritually, it suffocated me, as if my worth depended on being his fantasy, not my divine self. I became a mirror for his unhealed wounds, bearing shadows I didn’t create.
The Shadow Within: When Sacred Ties Become a Leash
As the entities deepened their hold, the spiritual consequences unfolded like a slow unraveling of his essence, a sacred desecration I witnessed day by day. His prana ebbed visibly before my eyes—once vibrant and creative, he now moved with the pallor of a man leeched dry, his aura dimmed to a flickering ember, starved by the very attachments that had slithered from his shadows into ours. These astral feeders didn’t just siphon his vitality; they eroded his divine spark, severing ties to higher purpose and leaving his soul adrift in a barren void, where intuition dulled and synchronicities ceased. I yearned to save him, to heal the fractures with my light—offering rituals of cleansing, words of affirmation, and the fierce love that could banish such darkness. But he was overtaken, his will subsumed by the numbness that made resistance futile; he grew content in the hollow routine, going through the motions like a puppet on frayed strings, devoid of true connection to me, to himself, or to the world pulsing with life around him.
The roots of my persistence traced back to a childhood wound, a jagged scar etched when my father vanished at seven without a goodbye, leaving a deep energetic imprint—a haunting blueprint of caring for someone who was never truly present. That absence carved a void in my heart, whispering that devotion could summon the unreachable, that my care could anchor a drifting soul. So why did I stay nearly four years, tethered to his chaos? Love, that stubborn alchemist, spun pain into hope, weaving gold from the threads of our shared dreams—lazy Sundays tangled in laughter, whispered plans for a future we painted in starlight, the way his fleeting grin could still spark joy despite the shadows. I clung to the belief in second chances, convinced his promises to cherish me could outweigh the addiction’s pull, that my patience might mend the fractures in us both. Yet wisdom sharpens in the quiet. The breaking point came on a biting winter evening, his denial laid bare: “It’s just a habit,” he muttered, eyes hollow from a psilocybin crash that led straight to the glow of porn, my pleas dismissed as mere noise. In that moment, I saw the entities’ grip—lust demons and addiction spirits poisoning our shared energetic field, twisting our connection into a leash that bound my spirit to his darkness. Staying meant surrendering my sovereignty to shadows I hadn’t summoned, draining my light to feed his void. Leaving shattered me, a heart wrenching severance marked by tears—not of blame, but of recognition that no villains stood between us, only two souls on divergent paths. In walking away, I vowed to reclaim my light, to honor the divine within me that no absence, no addiction, could ever dim.
Reclaiming My Light: A Journey of Energy Healing
Reclaiming my life force was a raw, sacred odyssey, an unbinding of the chains that tethered my soul to his shadows. Guided by a shaman, I wielded selenite and sage, envisioning the parasitic threads—lust demons and addiction spirits—dissolving in a blazing violet flame, their grip loosening as my spirit exhaled. The process seared; grief, a relentless teacher, carved pathways to liberation, each tear a testament to my resilience. This was a profound form of shamanic healing. I sought solace in nature’s embrace, crying endlessly beneath ancient oaks, their roots drinking in my sorrow, grounding the ache of betrayal that echoed my father’s silent departure when I was seven—a wound that had bound me to caring for the absent, to chasing presence in someone who could not stay. I poured my rage onto my journal’s pages, each furious stroke purging the energetic density of abandonment and unhealed promises.
Under a full moon’s watchful glow, I burned his old love letters, their ashes rising like a prayer of release, while I wept beneath a canopy of stars, accepting his refusal to heal—a surrender that freed me to choose myself. I turned inward, tending my wounds with fierce gentleness: walking barefoot in dew kissed grass, feeling the earth’s pulse rekindle my own; whispering affirmations, “I am whole, I am enough,” as amethyst infused baths cleansed my spirit. Through breathwork and yoni eggs, I honored my body as a sacred temple, no longer a stage for his darkness. Therapy wove clarity into my heart, unraveling how his addiction mirrored that childhood void, teaching me to cradle my worth with compassion. I vowed a year without dating or physical intimacy—a holy commitment to nurture my soul, to be fully present, to let joy bloom in soft, deliberate ways: a sunrise meditation, a quiet laugh at a sparrow’s dance, the warmth of morning light on my skin. This journey of reclaiming my life force was a profound form of shamanic healing and soul retrieval. Slowly, my spark reignited—colors blazed vivid, laughter flowed unforced, and my prana surged like a river breaking free of its chains.
Standing on the other side now, I see the alchemy of letting go: those four years taught me that love does not ask us to dim for another’s darkness or shoulder the weight of their entities—it demands we shine, fiercely and unapologetically, even alone. If your light trembles beneath someone else’s shadows, hear this: choosing yourself is not betrayal; it is your birthright. Walk away with grace, for the life force awaiting you is wilder, vaster, than you can dream. What raw rituals or tender moments have sparked your fire? Share your story—let’s weave a constellation of light together. Until then, hold your flame fierce, free, and untamed, for you are the keeper of your own divine radiance.
Kat Grace is a mystic, a healer, and storyteller weaving shamanic wisdom with raw vulnerability. For personalized guidance on energy healing and spiritual awakening, visit Kat Grace Healing.
