Descent into Sainthood

This last week in my creative writing class we were told to write our own, personal mythology, and to have fun with it! Well, this is what I ended up writing. I did have a lot of fun <3 I can’t say that it is finished though, and I will probably come back to it at some point. Anyway, hope you enjoy (P.S. I’m totally accepting disciples).


I was born into the world dead. In some sick, backwards Electra story, I killed my mother – robbed her of her life blood – and still unsatiated sucked in all the air around me through my umbilical cord until there was no more. I couldn’t breath. My mother recalls hovering above my murder, looking at her own body, and then, in recognition of her karmic goodness, getting sucked back into indescribable pain. Me? I just gazed breathlessly into my daddy’s eyes and stubbornly forced my lungs open for the first time. I survived.

Aristotle’s tabula rasa didn’t accompany me into life. Instead, my flawed past existence, maybe of bloody revolutionary fervor, followed me into the world with one final, intense show of bravado – this matricide. Only then, with all hatred finally spent and a small death to make me anew, did I become a clean slate. However, the damage was already done. I started this life with one karmic score against me – as if I had barely passed the test to be reborn as human, and needed the extra trial and tribulation.

This attempted birth-murder miracle stayed with me. My mom, so empty of blood, couldn’t get out of bed for 6 months, and, as the photographer of the family, didn’t take any pictures. My monstrous self remained undocumented. With such dubious beginnings, such a deep sin, my sense of responsibility inflated tremendously. I became a perfectionist. Scared, perhaps, that any second attempt at parental sabotage would be my last.

Though my parents encouraged me in every aspect of my life – sure darling, you can be a singing, acting astronaut who moonlights as a marine biologist – I felt any failure heavily and with immense regret. In kindergarten, Mrs. Grizwald threw a party every time I missed an answer on our small quizzes. Why? Because she knew I needed to learn to accept failure. I guess a six year old child quivering with horror, self-doubt, and disappointment isn’t healthy. I even broke out in hives.

Sin, I felt, began at my birth, and I was now a reincarnation of my previous deviation. Worried I might repeat my past mistakes of societal destruction, I began a long journey of self-control and self-denial. A veritable ascetic – with self flagellation and all. Emotionally, that is. I was never a cutter. My real nature of blood, lust, and vengeance had to be kept at bay. As a young child I cried when other people got reprimanded in class – I just repented and moved on when it was me. I cried when I thought someone was hurt – I bandaged myself up and moved on when it was me. By the time I entered school, all my parents had to do was tell me I was wrong, and I would spiral into a nosedive of self-loathing. I was my own disciplinarian. A real, empathetic saint.

This self-imposed descent into sainthood lasted for quite awhile. It wasn’t until later in life I became a human. At seventeen, I realized that I had backed myself into a corner of such moral strangulation that I could no longer live. So, I died. For the second time. Like Jesus in the tomb I spent three days without eating, without sleep, and in the end, I rose again. Finally, human. Ten years later, I’m still waiting for my next metamorphosis.


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