The Patron Saint of Lost Causes (The Day My Sisters Died, Part 3)

and managing your emotions and keeping your Faith is really survival of the fittest in a way I think anyone can relate to

Laurie Works

If you are just joining in, I invite you to read Part 1 and Part 2, here and here.

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st. jude
(St. Jude – The Patron Saint of Desperate Cases and Lost Causes)

“If this is salvation, I can show you the trembling.
You’ll just have to trust me. I’m scared.
I am the patron saint of lost causes…

…We’re not questioning God.
Just those he chose to carry on His cross.”

-Anberlin, *Fin

I was a lost cause walking into the Emergency Room that day. The whole world was swirling around me, like a tornado. I sat in a plastic chair in a daze. The news was droning our story above me, but I was in so much shock I couldn’t process it. I heard my mom, as if from a distance, asking the ER nurse where Stephanie was. The nurse was repeating details of where Rachel was, but…

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Alexithymia (The Day My Sisters Died – Part 2)

This is the feeling of dread that you receive in a war zone or any sort of shootout or situation that has guns involved or drones or anything of that mass caliber spinning at you on such an intensity that only a blur registers and then nothing.

Laurie Works

Trigger Warning: I know several people are reading who have also been through a similar experience to mine. In light of this, please know that some of this post may be disturbing to you. Please monitor yourself if you wish to keep reading and don’t read more than will unnecessarily disturb you. I am going to try to write this in a clear way, on a line between giving details without being overly graphic. However I know that each person’s triggers are different, so I just ask that you are very gentle with yourself as you read.

Click here to read part 1.

sisters
(L to R: Rachel, Stephanie (my twin), me, Grace. September, 2007 – 3 months before)

Alexithymia, the name of my sister Rachel’s favorite Anberlin song, has a strange meaning. According to Merriam-Webster, it is “the inability to express one’s feelings.” Psychologically, it can mean “deficiency or…

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caught in a light daydream

 

has it ever evolved from a rhapsody of some junk juke box in my brain
talking about left, right center catapult and a whole caterpillar
running out and then flying out into a ether of dust and granite
not all genesis is air — for clouds cocoon to rain and water to soil
its this channel of absolute changes that makes even a gossamer daydream
stuck with the wildly sane idea that maybe you are worth more than a serial code
and a infirmary letter of sick leave or a 9 to 5 depository —

that you are  a bank that has no deflation or inflation
a stock that is non industrial, non criminal in the bones
unless you draw a labyrinth and make minotaurs

I am feeling the chasms of space breathe in and out
as dots and daggers, winds and waifs climb down and up
in infinitesimal ladders; bridging broad hemispheres

line-line

 

porcelain readiness on the heart twice lined under a macroscopic option
the one toned and shaped by society; felt a harsh body coming out
I don’t like to stay silent; because in a conversation of silences
I wanted to speak a bit differently so that someone would notice

that I existed.

scrawling —

 

from the non-isometric line types that form the first misrepresentation
of a representation of a qualia of the infant mind not infantile in saying
large or small a similarity is at times more effective than sameness;
does more of a real signature, don’t you regard? — from that such asymmetrical
to a symmetry of sorts delving what we call alphabets or letters; gnawing on the
thicky cloudy mushy scratchy fur tagged fertile line of imagination and language

— even a genius begins with one singular word or stroke bearing an odyssey of pluralities
set to never extinguish even after a mortal flame decides to be alchemified into ether
or have wings of cotton like the candy film of a carnivale or streetside grain of beggars
feeling buying from them asking: “are you not the beggar yourself?” — for what depression
or abnegation, repression, or indulgence does not at times lack the sweetness of a smooth line? In the crookedness of so called non-elegance we see mountains that form cavernous hideouts and bodies of water whilst pyramids are only lines to a a two dimensional eye for you see cracks and chromosomal mutations of bricks that bridge the gap between a vowel and a consonant

…and in the end the happily ever after sketched like a cursive touch only to feel a block lettered indeniability of incompleteness so the curves can form new sentences out of the backbone of  meteoric craters of creation like the wide toothed grin of the moon paddling away on a river of ink waiting for the sun to write some lines so that they both can be a couple of celestial bodies who need each other — remember how communication is important and words must be a  both way thing for what is a tree without roots and leaves but a stump who feels empty until lively fungi decides to come and paint new sentences?

the world is a proverbial sentence.

you walk in the streets to add your own idioms but celluloid and neon rain has eroded some pages of communication which are hard to  research even under digital lamps that run like over energetic eels for they are at times weed vapour; and when I look for tongues that talk and faces that perambulate and bodies that type I realize how civilization is put on the edgy shanks of extinction without a  word written…

in either vapour or blood…

 

“Why is it so different?” —

I have faced this in many ways. This is the reason I feel defeated though I have hope. I burn with the punch, slap and stones of it from everyday. I am crucified by it and I have felt the nails of it dig in and I wonder at the wounds of it. I am astray from what is publicly acceptable and palatable. I am dead to the world around me. So dead that I cannot write much anymore either. The people around me succeeded in making me know I am different and that I have to be ashamed for it. I love differently, like a deviant, not criminally deviant, but deviant as so far that people pinch, prod and throw it away like a dissected frog. My sorries are not acceptable because my caste is that like an untouchable. I might live in filth or riches but like a monstrous statue or a circulated fable I am lived by vicariously and not really understood. I am a term in the dictionary that you leaf over and that you don’t understand but find some perverse solace that it was in the dictionary. I am not self-aggrandizing myself n any way. How can the untouchable self-aggrandize? My language, my culture, my trade may be part and parcel of the world but also away from it — in  a safe haven of nowhere near them. I have not Othered anyone much but most of my life I was on the other end and it hurts as much as it did then. Any untouchable knows this pain…

I’m Happier When I Love Myself Less

Seth Adam Smith

David's Chamber Throughout my life, I’ve sampled a number of junk-food philosophies—popular ideas that may look and taste great at first, but later make me feel sick and unsatisfied. And of all the junk-food philosophies I’ve tried, there is one stands supreme: “Love yourself— a lot !” it screams. “If you love yourself a lot   then you’ll be happy.”

Please don’t misunderstand, while it’s obviously important to respect and value ourselves, there is a world of a difference between a healthy love of self, and an excessive love of self. A true and balanced love of self will encourage us to love others equally. We cross the line when we love ourselves more than others.

Think of love in terms of sugar. The body has a natural need for sugar—but those needs are met as we eat balanced meals. Fruits, vegetables, and other foods naturally produce the sugar that our bodies require. If we’re eating a…

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