Butterfly

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Butterfly

By, Jess Gaudette

I remember staring out the window, staring up at the sky and wondering why God wasn’t listening to my prayers. Why God? Why won’t You let someone get me out of here? Don’t You love me? What did I do wrong?

With my headphones on I crawled into bed. Sleep was my escape. Oh, how I loved to sleep! I would lie in bed and dream about being somewhere, anywhere else, than home. I would dream about what it would be like to live the life of one of my classmates. I dreamed about being popular, of not being afraid, of going home to parents who loved me. I wondered how it would feel to be wanted.

Every day I tried to make myself more loveable. I tried to earn my way into the hearts of my parents in every way I could think of; I cleaned my room, I cleaned the kitchen, I made crafts at school, I played the flute and obsessed over it because I thought that if I was finally good at something they would love me. I was good at it, very good, but even that didn’t help.

I remember the day I gave up. I was 12, and it was Mother’s Day. I had made my mother a card at school the day before... I slaved over that card, it had to be perfect. It had to be beautiful. I was so proud of it, with its roses and hearts; the carefully written I love you at the top. I couldn’t wait to give it to her- certain that when she saw how hard I worked on it, she would see me.

I walked into the bathroom with my heart full of anticipation. She had left the door open. I expected to see her putting on her make-up. What I found instead is something I will never forget. She was sitting on the toilet with a razor blade in her hand. Blood covered every surface. When she saw me she screamed that it was all my fault, that I was bad, and she wished I would just go away. I don’t remember uttering a sound. I don’t remember leaving the bathroom. What I do remember is feeling defeated, frightened and more alone than ever before.

I went to school that day with my mind in a haze. I was not naïve enough to believe that it was the first time she had done that- I had seen the marks before, though she tried to hide them with long sleeves. I knew that every time she went into the hospital it was her mind that was sick. Even knowing all of that, my twelve year old mind just could not handle what I had witnessed.

A friend approached me after lunch and asked me if I wanted to leave for the day. At first I didn’t know what she was talking about. Leave? Leave school? Where would we go? What was she thinking? She said she knew of a place we could hang out, where there were “grown up” things to do. I thought about it for a minute. I thought about getting away from the prying eyes of the teachers, away from the kids that picked on me, away from life as I knew it. For the first time, I was angry instead of sad. In that moment I decided that I wasn’t going to try to please anyone but me anymore. After all, what was the point?

We snuck out the back door and ran as fast as our twig-like legs would carry us through the playground and down the path that we usually walked in science class, looking for flowers that matched what we were learning about. Neither of us knew where the path would lead. We ran and ran until our stomachs hurt. We collapsed in a tangled heap near a hollow log. We didn’t know where we were, or how to get to this “grown up” place. We got lost in the woods that day, never finding our destination. What I did find was what I had been praying for, freedom.

At long last, I wasn’t worried about my mother. I didn’t worry that the ambulance had taken her away again. I didn’t worry about my father coming to my room at night. I didn’t think about the men, all of the men, he brought me to. When I smiled it was real, it wasn’t pasted on to please. I learned what it meant to laugh, to smile, to have fun from deep inside.

Just like a drug, freedom was addictive. My career of school skipping had begun. I found places to hide, places to drink and do drugs, places to follow my true passion of writing. I no longer cared about where I was supposed to be, or what would happen if someone found me. I was free.

Of course, consequences were waiting for me at school, and at home. The school’s punishments ranged from detention to suspension. I saw suspension as an excused absence and thought it was fabulous. Punishment at home didn’t frighten me either. How much worse could it possibly get?

What I didn’t know is that I was setting the course for the rest of my life. I didn’t know that by skipping school I would miss opportunities that would never come again. I was unable to recognize how I was alienating myself from the very people who would have helped me if I had let them. I couldn’t see the frustration and pain I was causing those in my life who had a sincere desire to reach out to me.

I met a woman, Ginger, who became my best friend, mentor and idol when I was about 14. She owned a spiritual bookstore called The Jumping Off Place just down the road from where I went to school. I’ll never forget the first time I walked through the beaded curtain into the main part of the “store.” The word store is so inadequate to describe the experience. The impact of the aura within that room was physical. I was not just free there, with my cup of tea on a well loved sofa, I was safe. In this mystical place I had found a haven, a friend, and a confidant. I will never forget her, the lessons she taught me, or how she believed in me.

Ginger remained true when the explosive combination of my behavior and the abuse at home finally led to a series of hospitalizations and group homes. She wrote me lengthy letters, sent me books, encouraged me to write and most of all, she never stopped believing in me. Of all the people I had hurt while seeking freedom and never really finding it, she never gave up.

At the age of 30 now, I still remember her, and others, who touched my life back then; who helped shaped me into who I am today. The past is a painful one, and though I do still sometimes wish I had had a “normal” childhood, I am very grateful to have lived through it, and to be able to share my experience.

Now, I am a small business owner with a Masters in Computer Science. Yes, that’s right, I actually did attend- and graduated with a 3.8 GPA. I have a two year old little boy who inspires me every day to be the best mother I can possibly be. I don’t want him to have to chase freedom and safety. I want him to inherently be free, to feel safe, and to know what I did not- that he is loved beyond measure.

Ginger gave me a business card many, many years ago, and on it was a quote that I will never forget. “What the caterpillar thinks is the end of life, the butterfly realizes is just the beginning…” This reminds me every day that when I feel all hope is lost, to hang on tight and wait for the beauty. It will come, if I let it.

Contact information from the writer (permission given by owner to include email address): jessicalgaudette@gmail.com

*******Again, I add another trigger warning for the following poem. If the above was at all difficult for you to handle then reading the poem on the next page is not a good idea.

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