Before I get into the topic of my alter ego, I should note that this Chronicle will, at times, go back and forth through time. My objective is not to unfold a chronological timeline of my life, but rather to release the emotions as they come, in whatever order they feel like. I believe that some tales aren't ready to be told just yet. When they are ready, they will spill forth. I should also point out that if you are reading this, you should know that this is not all going to be sunshine and roses; it is also going to be a release of the negativity. Some of it is tame, some of it is vile. But it is an open and honest representation of the person behind the keyboard. That being said, I feel there is a lesson to learn in everything, whether it is positive or negative. The trick is turning negative into positive. The goal: To be more than who I am. Sounds simple enough but the path is never a smooth, relaxing ride. It has its bumps and obstacles and finding a way to clear the path can prove to be an exhausting challenge. Over the years, I've discovered that writing helps me clear that path, to make way for the journey that lies ahead. I've struggled with it at times and given it up for long periods. But I am continually called back to it, and at this point in my life, I no longer care if anyone thinks it is good enough to read. It is for me, and for me to sort out the the intricate web of thoughts and emotions inside my head.
So on to Miss Hyde. I probably could have thought of a better name for my alter ego, instead of ripping it off from a classic work of literary fiction. But I have my reasons for naming her Miss Hyde. I'll get to that. As I stated before, I came to realize early on that I had two very different and very distinct parts of me. The "good" side, and the "evil" side. However it took quite a while for H to show her true face completely and fully to me, but I will get to that too.
The "good" side of me, Ms. Jekyll, is many things. The things I am most proud of and that make me smile. My sense of humor, my fun-loving nature, my capacity to see good in all things, even when others perceive those things to be "evil" or "damaged", the love and connection I feel for those around me, my will to survive and fight through all that would harm me....and so on. Unfortunately, because my self-esteem is still a work in progress, I really don't have much more to say about J. That will come in time, with patience and positive reinforcement. One thing I DO know is that J has the capacity to be more than who she is; to grow into the kind of woman she can, with utmost certainty and conviction, be at peace with, and to someday draw her final breath knowing that.
The "evil" side, Miss Hyde, is everything I despise. She comes clawing to the surface through addiction. But not just drug addiction, there are many forms of it. She crept out slowly at first; through the attention-seeking I mentioned as a child. She got a taste of her first "high", the inevitable flow of focus from others, no matter if it was to be praised or punished. That was satisfactory for a while, until H needed something more. Escaping into the vast fantasy world of her imagination was next. She spent long hours forcing the shell in which she inhabited, Alison, to escape from reality and the pain of living. It was around this time that my father was actively drinking still, so sinking back into another world, where I could be anyone I wished to be, was comforting. And it quelled H, but not for long. At the age of 11, I started smoking cigarettes. The dizzying effect I felt was a welcome change from ordinary (but dysfunctional) everyday life. Slowly, but inevitably though, I became addicted and no longer felt the high I felt when I had first started. Ironically, this would happen again much later in my life.
The next phase of H's process of emergence was through a combination of self-pity, alcohol and pot. Chemicals speak for themselves; I need not explain that. But by self-pity I mean my perpetual feeling that I was unique and removed from everyone else. When I was in Catholic school, it was my confusion over what I was learning, from a religious standpoint. Everyone else appeared to believe, without questioning or doubt, what they were hearing and absorbing was the complete and absolute truth. Everyone, except me. My fellow classmates dressed differently, talked differently, listened to different music, had different interests, and yet, here I was, the weed in a rose garden. In retrospect, I know now that I felt it my whole life, even in my own family-the outcast, the black sheep, the troublemaker. But as I've come to realize, no one made me feel that way, it was her, H, that whispered a constant tape of self-loathing in my ear.
At the age of 19, I suffered a traumatic and lifechanging event. That story is for another time though. The short and to the point story of it is that I broke my back; crushing a vertabrae and leaving one of my legs paralyzed. Through surgery, therapy and a strong will (no doubt on the part of J) to fight, I got through it. But during the course of this physically and emotionally painful lesson in my life, I was naturally introduced to opiates. I found out all too quickly its numbing effects: it doesn't kill the physical pain, but it makes you not give a shit. Lost at sea, floating on your back with the water high enough to cover your ears to dull out the sounds of the harsh, cruel world; a state of perpetual and calming oblivion. It was a refreshing welcome when, at the time, I was forced to deal with the pain of healing my body and the unexpected horrors that radiated from that one moment in time where following my gut instinct would have spared me all of it. But somehow, I soldiered on, devoid of any dependence on the pills given to me. But H had different plans. She discovered that she could, at any time, pop an extra pill or two and enter that weightless, soundless and protective womb of denial.
Between the ages of 19 and 28, chemicals fell lowest on H's food chain. This period of my life was focused on another addiction, shopping and spending money. By 25 I had racked up over $12,000 in credit card debt. "Just declare bankruptcy", H whispered in my ear. And so it was done. In between all this, I had battled Panic Disorder, Depression, and PTSD. J and H battled it out like the gladiators of Ancient Rome; until one had to die. I thought I had buried her, said my goodbyes, and before turning away, spit on her grave, but apparently, that only antagonized H. And so, she waited, biding her time, her grand finale of vengeance still to come.
In 2000, my son Brendan was born. A full year of trying and I was rewarded with the most precious, most beautiful gift I have ever received. No words can describe it. If you are a mother, than you already know. He was born by C-section and I was promptly put on painkillers to ease the pain of surgery. It was and still is the best day of my life, but H was not done yet. The magic elixir, the poison that Ms. Jekyll ingested awoke Miss Hyde from a long and patient period of dormancy. Hell, it seemed, was what she was going to make of my life. And she meant business.
Up until that point, H could be kept down, controlled. A splinter in my mind that could be ignored, even plucked out when the irritation became too much. Now, she was a 2 x 4 in my head, screaming bloody murder and with one goal: to shut out everything I was supposed to feel. She was everything I tried so hard to mask: anger, pain, frustration, confusion, hatred. And the irony is that she loathed these things, these emotions, far more than I ever did. She would stop at nothing, NOTHING, to quiet those "demons" and her focus was solely on that soothing Womb of Quiet Darkness. Despite the efforts of J, on several occasions, to quiet H and try to bury her again and again, H would rise from the grave again, a mindless and unfeeling corpse to suck the life out of anyone who stood in her way.
It has been 11 years since H was unleashed upon this Earth, and the small part of it that I inhabit. It took me this long to realize something that never dawned on me before: Miss Hyde is immortal. Like the countless fictional vampires and various undead creatures I so often read about in books, she is here to stay. It horrified me at first to realize this. I denied it, tried to bury it as I said, but she kept creeping back; clawing her way through the wooden lid of her coffin, the roots and the dirt to breathe life once more. She is the total embodiment of everything I can't stand in myself, in other people, in this world and in this universe. Her presence is agonizing and overbearing at times. She feels it is only right to inflict her suffering upon me, and either I endure it, or go to my own grave.
This last relapse was probably the worst of any of them. There are many reasons, many of which I do not wish to disclose here. Miss Hyde lashed out with a ferocity that surprised me, and especially those around me. She is a living, waking nightmare. So how do I go on living with this Dark Half, this undead immortal creature who is, for now, lying silent somewhere deep within me? I've thought about this question countless times, keeping me awake some nights and other nights causing disturbing and vivid dreams. How do I pacify Hyde without unleashing her once again to terrorize myself and everyone that I love? That answer came yesterday.
As much as I need an outlet for all that is wonderful and remarkable in my life, Hyde needs an outlet too. As previously noted, that outlet is writing. When I, also known as Ms. Jekyll, write, it is, quite obviously, about my real experiences with life. A journey through the labyrinth inside the "real" me. So how do I create that for H? How do I pacify her without releasing her fury and active addiction? That answer is fiction, my friends. All the pent up aggression, horrors and dark side of life can be filtered into endless, spine-chilling works of literary therapy. Genius! Okay, I'm not a genius, but I play one on TV. The light bulb is flashing, the Eureka moment has hit, and that Nike motto "Just Do It" rolls through my head like a marquee.
So, as was the birth of The Butterfly Chronicles for myself, good 'ol Ms. Jekyll, there will be a sibling introduced in the coming days for the wild and demented Miss Hyde.
~AJW 5/29/11~
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Coincidence? I Think, Perhaps, Not.
"Coincidences are God's way of staying anonymous." I read that quote in a book that I am currently reading called "Stray" by Mark Matthews. It indelibly left a mark on me long after my eyes passed across the sentence on the page. The feeling that this book chose me, instead of I choosing it, was overwhelming. I ended the chapter, my eyes starting to burn from reading for hours, and decided to lay down for a little while. But that phrase kept pecking away at my brain, until I was forced to get up and write about it.
So, here I sit. And I can't stop thinking about "coincidences". But before I get to that, I need to back up a few steps, and explain my mindset prior to the events of this last year. This will be the only way I, and perhaps you, will be able to sense and understand my confusion, my wonder, my questions, and finally, my curiosity.
I grew up in a Catholic family-not wildly religious, mind you, but traditional Catholic ideals, embedded in my roots for who knows how many generations. In my early years of life, my environment consisted of my sister, nearly six years older than I, my mother, and my actively alcoholic father. Since more often than not Dad was the focus of the household attention, and usually not in a positive way, emotional needs fell by the wayside. I don't blame my mother OR my father; my Dad had a progressive and fatal disease, albeit addiction, and Mom had to do her best to keep some semblance of normalcy for us kids. I didn't understand then, but looking back on it, her role in our family was the most difficult of any of us.
But I digress, and that is another story for another time. My point being that because of the environment, lacking emotional encouragement, and the never ending physical and emotional needs of my father at that time, I became kind of a wild child. I craved attention in any way I could get it, positive or negative. So much so, that when the time came to enter the first grade, my mother promptly registered me in the local Catholic school. I really didn't know why then, all I knew was my sister never had to go there, so why did I have to? I was pissed. But over the eight years that I perceived to be myself imprisoned there, in a vast sea of contradiction (not only with the Catholic Church, but within myself) I came to realize several things. First, that the reason my mother put me there was not only that the school was in walking distance, but that she thought it would be good for me-a way to tame my behavior. Secondly, that I had two very distinct people inside of one body..my body. No, I do not have Multiple Personality Disorder. What I mean is, and for lack of a better way to put it, a good side and an evil side. Over the years, I've come to call it Ms. Jekyll and Miss Hyde, but, that's yet another story for another time. And finally, that although I tried very hard to believe what was being spoon fed to me day in and day out, I just couldn't believe blindly in the Bible, in God or Satan, all the hocus pocus and water into wine. It just never rang true for me, and quite frankly, it still doesn't.
I tried out other religions, none of them important enough to even mention, and I would read about them, try them out, and practice whatever rituals, if any, came along with them. Over and over, I would just feel completely stupid. It felt ridiculous and unnatural to me. The only thing I could ever come back to, lean on and feel at ease with was Science. I realize there is still much, even today, based in theory only, but so much has been proven through careful research by some of the world's most brilliant scientists. I guess for me, it's easier to have cold, hard, tangible evidence. I slowly realized that I was an Atheist. I didn't believe in God, or Satan for that matter, and until I saw proof, He was non-existent. And, after all, in a world as shitty as this one is, how could an all-loving, all-powerful being allow so much chaos, destruction, war and death? Nope, you couldn't convince me, unless you could bring him down to me straight from the heavens, and put Him right in front of my face. As I said earlier, I still don't believe in God, as the majority of the world sees Him. But something within me and all around me has been picking at my brain this past year. Something I could no longer ignore or turn my back to-coincidence.
It started last year, 2010, on June 26. The day my father passed away. He had been ill for many years, battling CoPD and emphysema, but it was a massive stroke that took him. My husband, my mother, my sister, and I were at his side when he passed. Although I had seen death firsthand before with my grandmother, this was my father....much more difficult for many reasons. Again, another story (I have so many!) for another time. But in the days that followed, despite my being in a stupor every day (I had relapsed prior to his passing), I noticed something strange in the days that followed.
Most people have seen a butterfly at least a few times in their life. But you don't see them often, and on the occasions that you do, it's a rare and beautiful gift. A life transformed: caterpillar to chrysalis, chrysalis to butterfly. The transformation itself is a totally mystery, how one can go from a creepy-looking insect, to a magnificent creature of color, beauty and flight. In a personal sense, it is inspiring. Like the caterpillar, we live our lives striving to be better than who we are, and with effort and time, we can emerge a whole new being. Spiritually, I had heard once that butterflies were a symbol of a passed loved one communicating with their family and friends that they were there, still watching, still with you. I'd always brushed it off as nonsense of course, that is, until the days following my father's death.
For approximately two weeks, I began to see a butterfly every single day. Some of those days, I saw them two or three times in one day. Despite the haze I was in, it was too often not to notice. But as addiction goes, I had only one objective, and it was not analyzing these sightings that were usually few and far between. And although I didn't think about it for months after, it stayed in my subconscious, like a sort of mental sticky note.
In February of 2011, this year, I entered detox for what seemed like the billionth time in the last 11 years. Five days of that, and I was ready to go to another facility for further treatment. It was the Stonington Institute, which is a PHP (partial hospitalization program). You lived off campus in a type of sober house, and a van picked you up every day to bring you to "school", which consisted of four, one hour groups. After that was over, you got in the van and brought back to your house. Each girl had two 10 minute phone times-one usually in the afternoon and one in the evening. My afternoon phone time was set to 3:10pm. However, what I didn't know when I picked that time was that the van that I was on didn't get back to the house until 3:30, thus missing my husband's calls. My first day of "school", I came back to the house, late of course. I was told that I had gotten a phone call. But the message that was relayed to me, by another girl who was unaware, was that "my father had called." I was taken back but brushed it off as a hurried and thoughtless mistake. I checked the phone call log book though, and written on the pad was, "Alison - your father called." Again, I brushed it off. The next day, as with the previous day, I arrived back at the house late again, missing my husband's phone call. The same girl relayed my message to me: "Your father called." I snapped. I yelled and cursed that my father was dead. I was furious. I sat with that anger a long time. How dare she fuck that up two days in a row. How do you mistake "husband" for "father"? I even asked my husband exactly what he said and confirmed what I already knew-both days, he specifically told her to tell me that "her husband called". Like it would be said any other way anyway. My anger told me that she was just a fucking idiot who couldn't take a simple phone message. I stormed up to my room to be alone.
As I lay on my bed, listening to music and processing what was really bothering me, it occurred to me that I had no reason to be angry with her. She had no idea my father had died, until I screamed it for everyone to hear. She made a mistake, well twice, but nevertheless, a mistake. Again, the thought came, "What's really bothering you?" Immediately, I thought of the fact that I hadn't even truly grieved my father in a normal way. After all, I had been in a haze when he passed, and for quite some time after. I missed him terribly. So many things I had wanted to say and now couldn't, and my deep regret and guilt that I had been in a drug-induced state when he died. Knowing I had relapsed would have hurt him so deeply. He would have been disappointed, angry. A part of me was glad that he didn't know-his final moments shouldn't have been spent wishing his youngest daughter would get a clue. Then, for what reasons I'm still not sure of, I remembered the butterflies. I thought long and hard about the implications of that experience, and what this latest incident with the phone calls might mean in relation to it. And it became suddenly yet unexpectedly crystal clear: my father was sending me messages.
The butterfly to me symbolizes transformation, obviously, as it does with most people. As I said before, caterpillar into chrysalis, chrysalis into butterfly. In relation to my father, it meant many things. The first one being his own battle with addiction, and emerging from it with more than 25 years of sobriety until the end. Secondly, and most importantly, I think, his transformation from life into death. And with the mysterious "mistake" phone calls, he was trying to tell me two important things: that he was still with me, and that I could succeed in my own transformation. In relation to myself, I saw that being there in Stonington was the first step in my transformation-the caterpillar building its cocoon, preparing itself for the pupa, or chrysalis stage. But I had, and have, a long way to go before becoming that beautiful butterfly that I so long to be. But I've taken the first steps to building my cocoon, and sheltering myself from the "evil" and all that would be obstacles on my journey to self-transformation. In doing so, and with realizing that perhaps life does go on after death and that my father was still "helping" me, it has opened my mind to otherworldly possibilities. I still cannot tell you that I am a staunch believer of the afterlife, but right now, I'm seeing things in a different perspective, a new light.
In the months that have followed my leaving Stonington, a couple of "miracles", or what I believe to be personal miracles, have happened. The first being that my thought to be inevitable, undeniable and impending imprisonment, and as also told to me by the hardest asses in my local court, was flipped; Hard Ass Sr. and Hard Ass Jr. had a change in demeanor, and apparently, a change of heart. They decided that as long as I stayed clean, kept up with my programs, my therapy, and gave them negative urines, they would reinstate my probation. NO PRISON. I would be able to pass GO, and go directly back to my life, albeit with restrictions. I didn't complain. I'm still stunned to be honest with you. My last court case was supposed to end in my imprisonment, and I managed to avoid that, but with a stern warning from my attorney at the time, "The next time, you WILL go to prison, Alison. Live knowing that." And of course, and unfortunately, I didn't. But here it was, a bonafide miracle, I was free and I am planning to stay that way. The second "miracle", was my sister. Though not directly affected by my addiction (but by that I mean she was removed, in another town, and I didn't rob her blind), she naturally had built up anger and disappointment by my betrayal of those she loved and cared about as much as I did: our mother, my husband, and my son. I understood her anger, and still do. I'm angry with myself, so of course my loved ones are hurt. I did horrible things for my addiction, I did horrible things to those around me, and I did horrible things to myself. So, unsurprisingly, my sister had ceased to speak to me. Of course it hurt, and I missed her terribly, but I had to give her the time and space that she needed. But still, I missed her so much. I didn't call, I didn't try to contact her...I know my sister and I know her well enough to know that trying to get her attention or say I'm sorry was only going to push her away from me. So I let her be. But when her birthday came around, I wasn't going to not send her a card. At the very least, it was my way of communicating to her, "I understand your silence, your anger, but you're still my sister and I love you, and I miss you." Whether it was that subliminal message or something else, I do not know, but what I do know is she contacted me. It was the beginning of what I hope to be, and strive for, a newly found relationship between Big Sister and Little Sister. A stronger, healthier sisterly bond. The miracle here? I thought for sure, to my very core, that she would never speak to me again. I am so glad I was wrong.
Finally, I come back to coincidences. There have have been many of them these past few months. Mostly the people that are in my life right now, whom I trust implicitly, who I have now come to believe are a part of my life for a reason. What that is, I do not know. I just know it from somewhere deep inside myself to be true and right. There have been other examples, but I feel what I have told is enough. No offense to the reader, but I don't have to justify my thoughts to anyone, nor convince you of my honesty or sincerity. As long as I know it and believe it to be true, then that is what is most important, and of greater importance to my own personal journey.
I will end with this though, something that happened to me just two days ago. I was at a friend's house for dinner and girl talk. We stepped out on the porch to smoke, and as I was standing there, a butterfly flew past us and into the trees across the street. Not really one of those "coincidental" moments, but still a tiny spark that resonated with me. A few minutes later, and this was the gas to that spark which ignited the huge flame of certainty within me, my friend's neighbor and her daughter walked out of their apartment and were preparing to get in their vehicle. I turned to look at them and smile and the daughter's back was facing me. There, on the back of her t-shirt, was the word "BUTTERFLY". I smiled and silently whispered, "Thanks Dad". The chrysalis stage had just begun.
~AJW 5/28/11~
So, here I sit. And I can't stop thinking about "coincidences". But before I get to that, I need to back up a few steps, and explain my mindset prior to the events of this last year. This will be the only way I, and perhaps you, will be able to sense and understand my confusion, my wonder, my questions, and finally, my curiosity.
I grew up in a Catholic family-not wildly religious, mind you, but traditional Catholic ideals, embedded in my roots for who knows how many generations. In my early years of life, my environment consisted of my sister, nearly six years older than I, my mother, and my actively alcoholic father. Since more often than not Dad was the focus of the household attention, and usually not in a positive way, emotional needs fell by the wayside. I don't blame my mother OR my father; my Dad had a progressive and fatal disease, albeit addiction, and Mom had to do her best to keep some semblance of normalcy for us kids. I didn't understand then, but looking back on it, her role in our family was the most difficult of any of us.
But I digress, and that is another story for another time. My point being that because of the environment, lacking emotional encouragement, and the never ending physical and emotional needs of my father at that time, I became kind of a wild child. I craved attention in any way I could get it, positive or negative. So much so, that when the time came to enter the first grade, my mother promptly registered me in the local Catholic school. I really didn't know why then, all I knew was my sister never had to go there, so why did I have to? I was pissed. But over the eight years that I perceived to be myself imprisoned there, in a vast sea of contradiction (not only with the Catholic Church, but within myself) I came to realize several things. First, that the reason my mother put me there was not only that the school was in walking distance, but that she thought it would be good for me-a way to tame my behavior. Secondly, that I had two very distinct people inside of one body..my body. No, I do not have Multiple Personality Disorder. What I mean is, and for lack of a better way to put it, a good side and an evil side. Over the years, I've come to call it Ms. Jekyll and Miss Hyde, but, that's yet another story for another time. And finally, that although I tried very hard to believe what was being spoon fed to me day in and day out, I just couldn't believe blindly in the Bible, in God or Satan, all the hocus pocus and water into wine. It just never rang true for me, and quite frankly, it still doesn't.
I tried out other religions, none of them important enough to even mention, and I would read about them, try them out, and practice whatever rituals, if any, came along with them. Over and over, I would just feel completely stupid. It felt ridiculous and unnatural to me. The only thing I could ever come back to, lean on and feel at ease with was Science. I realize there is still much, even today, based in theory only, but so much has been proven through careful research by some of the world's most brilliant scientists. I guess for me, it's easier to have cold, hard, tangible evidence. I slowly realized that I was an Atheist. I didn't believe in God, or Satan for that matter, and until I saw proof, He was non-existent. And, after all, in a world as shitty as this one is, how could an all-loving, all-powerful being allow so much chaos, destruction, war and death? Nope, you couldn't convince me, unless you could bring him down to me straight from the heavens, and put Him right in front of my face. As I said earlier, I still don't believe in God, as the majority of the world sees Him. But something within me and all around me has been picking at my brain this past year. Something I could no longer ignore or turn my back to-coincidence.
It started last year, 2010, on June 26. The day my father passed away. He had been ill for many years, battling CoPD and emphysema, but it was a massive stroke that took him. My husband, my mother, my sister, and I were at his side when he passed. Although I had seen death firsthand before with my grandmother, this was my father....much more difficult for many reasons. Again, another story (I have so many!) for another time. But in the days that followed, despite my being in a stupor every day (I had relapsed prior to his passing), I noticed something strange in the days that followed.
Most people have seen a butterfly at least a few times in their life. But you don't see them often, and on the occasions that you do, it's a rare and beautiful gift. A life transformed: caterpillar to chrysalis, chrysalis to butterfly. The transformation itself is a totally mystery, how one can go from a creepy-looking insect, to a magnificent creature of color, beauty and flight. In a personal sense, it is inspiring. Like the caterpillar, we live our lives striving to be better than who we are, and with effort and time, we can emerge a whole new being. Spiritually, I had heard once that butterflies were a symbol of a passed loved one communicating with their family and friends that they were there, still watching, still with you. I'd always brushed it off as nonsense of course, that is, until the days following my father's death.
For approximately two weeks, I began to see a butterfly every single day. Some of those days, I saw them two or three times in one day. Despite the haze I was in, it was too often not to notice. But as addiction goes, I had only one objective, and it was not analyzing these sightings that were usually few and far between. And although I didn't think about it for months after, it stayed in my subconscious, like a sort of mental sticky note.
In February of 2011, this year, I entered detox for what seemed like the billionth time in the last 11 years. Five days of that, and I was ready to go to another facility for further treatment. It was the Stonington Institute, which is a PHP (partial hospitalization program). You lived off campus in a type of sober house, and a van picked you up every day to bring you to "school", which consisted of four, one hour groups. After that was over, you got in the van and brought back to your house. Each girl had two 10 minute phone times-one usually in the afternoon and one in the evening. My afternoon phone time was set to 3:10pm. However, what I didn't know when I picked that time was that the van that I was on didn't get back to the house until 3:30, thus missing my husband's calls. My first day of "school", I came back to the house, late of course. I was told that I had gotten a phone call. But the message that was relayed to me, by another girl who was unaware, was that "my father had called." I was taken back but brushed it off as a hurried and thoughtless mistake. I checked the phone call log book though, and written on the pad was, "Alison - your father called." Again, I brushed it off. The next day, as with the previous day, I arrived back at the house late again, missing my husband's phone call. The same girl relayed my message to me: "Your father called." I snapped. I yelled and cursed that my father was dead. I was furious. I sat with that anger a long time. How dare she fuck that up two days in a row. How do you mistake "husband" for "father"? I even asked my husband exactly what he said and confirmed what I already knew-both days, he specifically told her to tell me that "her husband called". Like it would be said any other way anyway. My anger told me that she was just a fucking idiot who couldn't take a simple phone message. I stormed up to my room to be alone.
As I lay on my bed, listening to music and processing what was really bothering me, it occurred to me that I had no reason to be angry with her. She had no idea my father had died, until I screamed it for everyone to hear. She made a mistake, well twice, but nevertheless, a mistake. Again, the thought came, "What's really bothering you?" Immediately, I thought of the fact that I hadn't even truly grieved my father in a normal way. After all, I had been in a haze when he passed, and for quite some time after. I missed him terribly. So many things I had wanted to say and now couldn't, and my deep regret and guilt that I had been in a drug-induced state when he died. Knowing I had relapsed would have hurt him so deeply. He would have been disappointed, angry. A part of me was glad that he didn't know-his final moments shouldn't have been spent wishing his youngest daughter would get a clue. Then, for what reasons I'm still not sure of, I remembered the butterflies. I thought long and hard about the implications of that experience, and what this latest incident with the phone calls might mean in relation to it. And it became suddenly yet unexpectedly crystal clear: my father was sending me messages.
The butterfly to me symbolizes transformation, obviously, as it does with most people. As I said before, caterpillar into chrysalis, chrysalis into butterfly. In relation to my father, it meant many things. The first one being his own battle with addiction, and emerging from it with more than 25 years of sobriety until the end. Secondly, and most importantly, I think, his transformation from life into death. And with the mysterious "mistake" phone calls, he was trying to tell me two important things: that he was still with me, and that I could succeed in my own transformation. In relation to myself, I saw that being there in Stonington was the first step in my transformation-the caterpillar building its cocoon, preparing itself for the pupa, or chrysalis stage. But I had, and have, a long way to go before becoming that beautiful butterfly that I so long to be. But I've taken the first steps to building my cocoon, and sheltering myself from the "evil" and all that would be obstacles on my journey to self-transformation. In doing so, and with realizing that perhaps life does go on after death and that my father was still "helping" me, it has opened my mind to otherworldly possibilities. I still cannot tell you that I am a staunch believer of the afterlife, but right now, I'm seeing things in a different perspective, a new light.
In the months that have followed my leaving Stonington, a couple of "miracles", or what I believe to be personal miracles, have happened. The first being that my thought to be inevitable, undeniable and impending imprisonment, and as also told to me by the hardest asses in my local court, was flipped; Hard Ass Sr. and Hard Ass Jr. had a change in demeanor, and apparently, a change of heart. They decided that as long as I stayed clean, kept up with my programs, my therapy, and gave them negative urines, they would reinstate my probation. NO PRISON. I would be able to pass GO, and go directly back to my life, albeit with restrictions. I didn't complain. I'm still stunned to be honest with you. My last court case was supposed to end in my imprisonment, and I managed to avoid that, but with a stern warning from my attorney at the time, "The next time, you WILL go to prison, Alison. Live knowing that." And of course, and unfortunately, I didn't. But here it was, a bonafide miracle, I was free and I am planning to stay that way. The second "miracle", was my sister. Though not directly affected by my addiction (but by that I mean she was removed, in another town, and I didn't rob her blind), she naturally had built up anger and disappointment by my betrayal of those she loved and cared about as much as I did: our mother, my husband, and my son. I understood her anger, and still do. I'm angry with myself, so of course my loved ones are hurt. I did horrible things for my addiction, I did horrible things to those around me, and I did horrible things to myself. So, unsurprisingly, my sister had ceased to speak to me. Of course it hurt, and I missed her terribly, but I had to give her the time and space that she needed. But still, I missed her so much. I didn't call, I didn't try to contact her...I know my sister and I know her well enough to know that trying to get her attention or say I'm sorry was only going to push her away from me. So I let her be. But when her birthday came around, I wasn't going to not send her a card. At the very least, it was my way of communicating to her, "I understand your silence, your anger, but you're still my sister and I love you, and I miss you." Whether it was that subliminal message or something else, I do not know, but what I do know is she contacted me. It was the beginning of what I hope to be, and strive for, a newly found relationship between Big Sister and Little Sister. A stronger, healthier sisterly bond. The miracle here? I thought for sure, to my very core, that she would never speak to me again. I am so glad I was wrong.
Finally, I come back to coincidences. There have have been many of them these past few months. Mostly the people that are in my life right now, whom I trust implicitly, who I have now come to believe are a part of my life for a reason. What that is, I do not know. I just know it from somewhere deep inside myself to be true and right. There have been other examples, but I feel what I have told is enough. No offense to the reader, but I don't have to justify my thoughts to anyone, nor convince you of my honesty or sincerity. As long as I know it and believe it to be true, then that is what is most important, and of greater importance to my own personal journey.
I will end with this though, something that happened to me just two days ago. I was at a friend's house for dinner and girl talk. We stepped out on the porch to smoke, and as I was standing there, a butterfly flew past us and into the trees across the street. Not really one of those "coincidental" moments, but still a tiny spark that resonated with me. A few minutes later, and this was the gas to that spark which ignited the huge flame of certainty within me, my friend's neighbor and her daughter walked out of their apartment and were preparing to get in their vehicle. I turned to look at them and smile and the daughter's back was facing me. There, on the back of her t-shirt, was the word "BUTTERFLY". I smiled and silently whispered, "Thanks Dad". The chrysalis stage had just begun.
~AJW 5/28/11~
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