To Become A Butterfly

Warning: the following blog post contains graphic imagery and the subject of suicide that some readers may find triggering. Please proceed at your own discretion… You know your limits best.






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I find myself driving alongside a straight road that seems to stretch infinitely ahead of me, and infinitely behind me. Like my own future and past, I am aware both have a defined beginning, and a defined ending, though from where I am neither beginning nor ending are in sight.






The trees reach outwards in all directions. As the wind blows, I can somehow feel its current in the hairs in my arms as it weaves through the leaves on the trees. I feel parts of myself drawn in every direction at the slightest nudge; a swaying in the current of the air.






The sun, like consciousness itself, can never illuminate every shadow, no matter how brightly it shines.






A blue, expansive lake filled with beautiful white lilies passes, shortly after revealing a gun shop in a rugged small town. It’s as if all at once I am reminded the two are a part of the same earth, even though it’s hard to fully grasp at times.






Breathing back into my body, I am once again a separate being whose hair moves to the wind of my own current, as the trees in the distance dance to their own ancient melodies that only momentarily intersect.






A lot of change has taken place the past two weeks. My time at the ecovillage came to a halt when I found myself no longer able to keep up with the demands of a 50-hour week without pay. With a traumatic past that still needs much processing, it’s a wonder I lasted the two months that I did.






Soon my darkness that I had on some level tried to work away, came back with a gravity that could not be resisted. Like a black hole, the shadowy gash that runs up my belly and towards my heart prevents any light from emerging… Instead, I can feel the sorrow pulling energy from around it to compensate.






This darkness has come from a past that has shaped much of who I am today. My desire to heal was birthed as a result of my narcissistic father’s covert emotional and physical abuse.






While I had been making strides in my recovery as I began to become more independent, I was shocked to find that I had began observing narcissistic tendencies in my last (and first) romantic partner.






Like an Oedipus complex, I knew on a logical level that I was likely to be attracted to narcissists as a result of my father. Nonetheless, when the subtle changes began to escalate, I reached a breaking point.






I firmly believe that a breakup does not need to be hurtful. Conflict is an opportunity for growth, always, and if there are conflicts that cannot be resolved






For a long time afterwards, I was not able to access the memories of the break. I knew that it had been bad, I knew that he had intentionally set out to hurt me, and ultimately I felt very confused. As I would be working in the fields, the memories started to come back and I would find myself in a sense re-living the experiences I had suppressed.






My high school psychology teacher used to say: A frog that is thrown in boiling water jumps out straight away, because it knows that it is dangerous. However; a frog that is put in cool water that is slowly brought to a boil will actually let itself become cooked alive.






It’s far easier to notice big change as it happens. But most change is not quick or loud; Most change simmers, slowly building, until one day we wake up and realize that we are in a bad place.






Whenever I feel unable to cope with what life gives me, my mind goes straight to suicide as an option.






Though it already seems so far away from the highway that stretches before me, just the day prior, I had nearly taken my own life.






Memories flash of my father’s abuse and my last relationship’s hurtful end and I am reminded with painful clarity that no matter where I run in life, I will always have these memories.






To be honest, I don’t quite remember how it got out that I was feeling suicidal. I broke down crying several days in a row, unable to continue working due to physical and emotional exhaustion. I think I mentioned it sometime in my breakdown, but it took several days for the pain to compound and spiral out of control.






As much as I loved the forest, the clouds and bright blue sky, the rows of plants blowing softly in the breeze; As much as I loved the people I met at the community and the courage I was able to summon to make the jump, they were not enough reason for me to see the good in staying on Earth.






There were times when I felt lost; I asked the stars and the moon to give me answers. I sat alone in an abandoned church, the light filtering through stained glass windows, Why am I here? I would ask.






Why do I deserve to be hurt?






I go to the creekside, as questions ate away at my mind.






Though I wanted her to save me, the Earth could only hold me.






One more day, I’d tell myself. Just make it one more day. I’d try to cry but I could not access the tears. The numbness was worse than any amount of pain.






It was not until I was told that I was at risk of being thrown in a psych ward or otherwise being forcibly removed by the leader of the farm that I realized the complete lack of understanding that exists around emotional crises.






What began as wanting to take an emotional sick day (which, to me, looked like a day of sleep) soon turned into scrambling for a home in a race against time. Nobody asked me why I felt like ending my life. In some ways it seemed like nobody cared. Instead I experienced the complete resistance that most people have towards negative emotion, to the shadow self. I became a symbol of the shadow self to the others, and as a reflection of their treatment towards their own shadow self, I was cast out.






I was feeling most hopeless and, not surprisingly, more suicidal than ever before upon being completely ostracized for feeling bad. It seemed to confirm a latent belief that there was something wrong with me; something that only starting all over again could fix. Like flipping a switch, I was back to square one again.






As I found myself entering another dark night of the soul where I was confronting possible homelessness, a series of synchronicities suddenly gave me a place to stay. My mom happened to mention that my uncle knew a girl who had been staying at the same farm. I remember being angry when I first read that message, because she had actually left several months prior for the similar reason of clashing with the leader of the community.






The next day, another man who was leaving the community said that the same girl and her boyfriend had heard about my situation and offered me a place to stay. Just like that, I was reminded again that sometimes the universe has its own way of working things out. As my close friend advised, I left the next day, not daring to look back.






I was a mess as I moved into a small trailer on the new farm… For the first few days all I did was sleep and cry. Then I would occasionally leave the trailer to talk to the couple who had kindly offered me a place to stay, but I began to feel self conscious about my dark mental state.






I felt like being suicidal was a dark secret that I needed to keep hidden for my own protection. I was terrified that I would eventually be kicked out again for being a basket case, and so I hid out in isolation as I tried to let go of the painful memories that were claiming my present.






People don’t understand that a breakup from a narcissist is nothing like a normal breakup. Instead, I was left emotionally crippled from the extreme verbal abuse. I was left degraded by the fact that I was begging him to stop hurting me, and no amount of begging left me spared. I was left confused because at one point he was yelling at me and I got a warm fuzzy feeling in my stomach; a feeling that was completely out of place considering I was being abused. I was left uncertain because I thought he was a safe person I could trust, and I was wrong. I was so wrong, and I wonder how I can trust myself again.






I did all this healing, I remember thinking to myself, in order to end up back here again? Like many ‘arguments’ with an abusive person, I had dissociated for much of it. It scared me to see how many gaps were in my memory.






Remember. Remember. I wanted to remember. That’s the thing; even though the dissociation is there to protect me, when it happens often enough I begin to logically think that maybe things weren’t as bad as I feel they were.






Blink. He is screaming at me to shut the fuck up. I had been asking him why he never asked questions of people, did he just assume he knew other people, without ever asking?






Why could he ignore someone he supposedly loves? Why he could go hours, days without me crossing his mind? The memory goes black.






I had taken care of him when he was sick. He had a fever. He told me to leave but I thought that was nonsense. He had a whole apartment to move, and so I helped him move... After all, we were still together; a team. We’re a team, right?






In return, I got berated for asking why he seemed so emotionally distant. That’s when the abuse started, and my mind goes black for the most part. Why?






I stare at the light blue ceiling in the small trailer. The sound of cicadas and frogs is the ambience to my thoughts, and I lie on a perfectly white mattress, drenched in sweat.






This is where I want to die, I think to myself.




I imagine my soul leaving, leaving. More memories flash.






I am begging him to not leave me on my own. I am asking him why he doesn’t care that I am being hurt, why he is leaving me alone when he knows it is hurting me. He walks out the door.






I have no car, no way of going anywhere. I am stranded in a unique form of isolation torture; unique because on some level I consented to it. I hear the door slam as he leaves me behind. Why can’t I come with you? It’s not a good idea, he said. So did she. This is really hurting my feelings, I say. But they look away. I was never welcome.






The entire time he was gone I tried to distract myself. Distract from the urge to slit my wrists. The loneliness. It was the worst experience I had ever survived… Worse than my dad screaming at me to kill myself.






It is always easier to point out what’s there, than what’s not. Isolation is an invisible killer.






Do you remember that? I message him. I am back in the trailer, and the heat is building. The sweat drips from my neck. I wish I had been the one to say fuck you to him. But I had nowhere to go, same then as I did now. This time, I was stronger.






Do you remember when I was begging you to not hurt me, and you kept going? I ask.






Did I deserve it?






He starts getting worried. He sends me the suicide hotline number. I laugh to myself. He thinks I would call it. I am so beyond help at this point.






ANSWER ME. I say. No answer. That’s fine. I’m used to this. But I am going to ask him until he tells me the only thing I need to hear.






DID I FUCKING DESERVE IT? DO I FUCKING DESERVE TO BE HURT? DO I FUCKING DESERVE TO DIE?






Stop. I allow myself to sit in the loneliness. I haven’t dosed myself yet so I may still survive. I won’t dose myself for the next hour.






He says he’s getting worried. Haha… isn’t that funny? He’s so funny. Why bully someone and then worry when they snap?






No, you didn’t deserve it, the message reads on my phone. Good. I’m going to take this last drop of kindness from him and run.






I weave in and out of consciousness. Sleep claims me for a brief while. Time is nowhere, only now.






The sweat covers me like a thin, satin sheet. And slowly, I am no longer here in this trailer. I let my mind go where it wants to go.






I am at the lake. Beautiful trees surround me, swaying. The water is still and gentle. This is the place where I had imagined dying so many times before.






Are you ready? The clouds ask. Of course I am… I feel myself floating upwards, vibrating. Light… I feel… light.






I saw her body lying on the ground beneath, embedded in between grass. I begin to stretch outwards, encompassing the sky.






Some hikers find her body. They call the police and the investigation begins. They carry her body and search for her keys. They are able to find identification, a driver’s license from Colorado. They do not seem sad, they only frown, wondering what the hell was wrong with her.






They look at her car. This girl is strange. They search for clues but there is none. There is no evidence of anything. She didn’t write a letter in her frenzy.






It was hard seeing her mother cry. I had never seen something like that in my entire life… She was at the house. The dogs and cats knew something was wrong, and they watched her with questioning, anxious eyes.






I am crying. Tears mixed with sweat. Salt, and more salt. Water.






Wherever the impact of my death reaches, I am there. I move out to see siblings, my younger brothers. They all are shocked. They huddle together in a hug around my mother. I see them slowly break down, their masculine exteriors giving way to scared children.






My dad glazes over when he hears the news. He doesn’t cry much, only alone when nobody is watching. He seems almost angry that she left. He avoids the pain through distractions. He tells himself it isn’t his fault, and he believes it. He can believe anything he wants to believe and it is reality.






My extended family comes together to see my mom… People are crying. Strangers, crying.






And they all say I am a friend; strangers, people I’ve never even met, tell others; a friend of mine committed suicide.






They gather, wearing black. My family groups together in a bunch; my dad keeps his distance. He keeps on glazing over, then excusing himself to the restroom.






And I am suddenly aware of something.






This whole time, I thought that if I killed myself it would show all the ones who hurt me how much they hurt me. But that wasn’t the case at all. I watch as they all dissociated when they heard the news. They did know that they were the reason on some level, but they brushed it off, saying there was more going on than just their own abuse. Soon, the notion became completely subconscious.






My boyfriend glazed over when he heard the news. He had, at first, no reaction whatsoever. But then he would be alone. He would scream at himself when he was alone. He would scream bloody murder, swearing “FUCK” over and over again, before resorting back to numbness. I didn’t see the tears come until much later.






I watch family members go up to my mom and cry… and hug her. No mother should ever witness the death of her daughter, they’d say. Her eyes were puffy and red, but she was strong. My grandmother helped look after her for the next few weeks. They became much closer.






The funeral was over quickly. Nobody really knew what to say for consolation. The entire feeling of the room was one of fear. People feared what it meant for the world if people like me were committing suicide. A whole darkness came upon the people there.






My father stayed alive, he continued hurting people, while my mother lived her life quietly and with dignity, but utterly heartbroken. She was perhaps the only one who knew the truth that he pushed me to that point, and it was killing her. The guilt of what she could have done differently was killing her, literally. Her health deteriorated as time went by; perhaps quicker than it would have been if it hadn’t happened. But it did.






My heart ached as I watched her, as I watched the hard shells of my brothers crumble in grief. I watched my father move on and forget about me, I watched my last partner move on through life in a dissociated fugue for a while.






More than watching the people who I wanted to be impacted the most by my death move on the quickest, I could not shake the feeling of grief at the pain I caused those I loved the most. Pain caused by the simple act of leaving.






I watch them; time moves on. They heal. Sometimes, when the wind blows, they think of me, and they will get a pang of sadness mixed with gratitude. They have their own lives to live; small wins to claim, and some big wins…. And time keeps moving.






I enter the void. I am nothingness, simplicity. I am experience itself unembodied. What is to come of the earth? I cannot know, really know, because I am not a part of it. I am it.






The part in my chest that was once a black hole, I noticed, suddenly filled with love. Suddenly, I remember why I’m still here. I can’t leave them… I love them too much…






I come back into the room. An orange light filters shakily through the window; fading to dusk. The tears stream down and I feel the darkness begin to leave my stomach.




Finally, I feel a release.





* * *




A lime green caterpillar slowly makes its way across the table, crawling directly towards my arm. I am sitting at a picnic table with the leader of the ecovillage I had stayed for the past two months.




We were discussing things about my future, eyes looking forward. Eventually the caterpillar crawls up onto my arm.




At the time, I know it's a sign. Yet, my ego feels indignant. "No way I'm a caterpillar! I have made it so far, only to become a caterpillar again?"




I carry it to a nearby Echinacea flower, where it begins to munch on a leaf.






Like the caterpillar, I am just beginning… I am crawling along in search for sustenance (caterpillars spend most of their time eating, and mulching).




The sustenance I crave, however, is one of an emotional nature.






One day I hope to soar past all limitations, and break through all barriers. But the caterpillar teaches this process cannot be rushed.




Becoming a butterfly requires a breaking down of every cell in its body in order to become completely transformed.






Like the caterpillar, I am on a journey. I am searching for a place to build my cocoon, so I may become transformed.






I ask for your positive focus and prayers as I continue on this path of healing. <3