The Struggle Within: Miss Hyde

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~