I Don’t Believe In God, But I Do Believe In My Dead Sister

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I don’t believe in heaven, or a higher power. I don’t even know what a soul is. I’m not one of those people who sometimes prays, despite lack of faith.

But I do believe in my dead sister.

I speak to her frequently—as I walk the busy streets of New York City, or as I lie awake in the middle of the night, unable to shake some silly worry. And I’m not afraid to ask her for help.

It’s my sister I implore for strength when I’m in trouble, or just sad. It’s my sister I channel, desperate for respite from Life’s more unsettling aspects. It’s my sister I reach for when shit gets dark.

When I just can’t bear the pain of the world, it’s her I speak to inside my heart. When I’m sinking in the depths of defeat because I’ve had a bad day or a terrible fight with my significant other, it’s her name I whisper. When I’m craving guidance, it’s her I seek for advice.

More than any god, I trust the particles of my sister’s being floating throughout the universe. I imagine her distributed throughout time and space in a manner that defies human comprehension. I think of her as intangible, impossible—more than anything, incredible.

I don’t need to understand how she exists, or why.

My sister is with me at all times, but her presence is somehow more pronounced when I need her the most. She is there when the world as I know it fails to make sense—when I envy her, almost, for being dead.

She also pops up when I least expect it.

She is there, in the candle that somehow reignites seconds after I’ve extinguished it with a hearty breath. She is there, in the cashier who makes my day by offering me lunch on the house. She is there, in the complimentary meal I accidentally spill all over my desk, laughing with me at Life’s ridiculousness. She is there, in the tiny dead bird I pass on the sidewalk on my way to work.

“Hi Céline!” I say, to no one in particular. Then continue on my way, smirking just a little. TC mark

Mélanie Berliet

I adore the following, in no particular order: knee-high tube socks, acrostic poetry, and my little brother. Click here to learn more!

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You look back and you just feel stupid.
You can’t forgive yourself for falling
or believing all the lies.
You reread every text.
You relive every memory.
And it all starts making sense —
he never wanted love.
He only wanted attention.
He only wanted validation.

“It’s just wondrous how every time I go through some emotional trauma, your posts are so relatable and it gives me so much hope. I love the writing and the photos. It’s all a pleasure to read. I can’t thank you enough for it, really.” — DM from @ThoughtCatalog Instagram follower

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