Dymphna, Please

Saint Dymphna is tired of my shit.
She blocked me in the spiritual realm.
My prayers bounce like emails with an out-of-office reply that just says:
“girl.”

I lit a candle for her.
It exploded.
That’s on me.
I did trauma-dump in the gift shop.

I show up with an unwashed rosary and three fresh diagnoses, sobbing like a busted fire hydrant in front of a statue that’s probably sick of my entire bloodline.
“Hey girl,” I whisper.
“Miss me?”
She sighs in Latin.

She’s the patron saint of mental illness not miracle-working, babe.
And I keep treating her like my personal crisis concierge.
I bring her one hyperfixation, five unanswered texts from my ex, and a glitter pen with which to rewrite my narrative.
She brings me silence.
And sometimes the feeling that maybe I am the problem.

Last week I asked her:
“Is it okay to trauma-bond with a tarot reader and call it healing?”

The statue visibly winced.
She watched me self-diagnose via memes, moon signs, and a trauma-informed playlist called “manic pixie dream breakdown.”
She watched me romanticize anxiety because I liked how it made me interesting.
Because I liked how she still listened.

I asked her to smite my ex.
She said: “That’s not how this works.”
I said: “Okay but what if it was?”

I cried in front of her for forty-five minutes then apologized for crying.
Then trauma-dumped again about how I always apologize too much.

She’s heard it all:
the spiral.
the rebound situationship with the girl who definitely smells like sin.
the dream journal entries that sound like deleted Tumblr posts.
the time I tried to manifest peace but ended up texting my ex.

Saint Dymphna is tired of my shit.
But she hasn’t smote me yet.
Which feels like love.
Or at least codependency with wings.

I tell her:
“I know I’m a lot.”

She doesn’t disagree.
But the candle doesn’t go out this time.

She just sighs, in that sacred, exhausted way only saints and therapists do, and says:
“You again? Fine. Let’s start with the most recent crisis.”