Charity Lee - How Now, Butterfly?

HOW NOW, BUTTERFLY? published by:

WILDBLUE PRESS

P.O. Box 102440

Denver, Colorado 80250

Publisher Disclaimer: Any opinions, statements of fact or fiction, descriptions, dialogue, and citations found in this book were provided by the author, and are solely those of the author. The publisher makes no claim as to their veracity or accuracy, and assumes no liability for the content.

Copyright 2019 by Charity Lee

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ISBN 978-1-948239-64-6 Trade Paperback

ISBN 978-1-948239-63-9 eBook

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Introduction

I named my firstborn, my son Paris, after a hero in the Iliad . Paris was a sheepherder who was actually a prince of Troy banished at birth. His mother, Hecuba, loved him unconditionally, yet she knew, because of a dream she had before he was born, she had given birth to the torch that burned her city down. She knew her son was a threat.

One day while Paris was with his sheep, isolated in his own world, three goddesses appeared to him and asked him to settle a disagreement about who was the most beautiful among them. Among his choices was Hera, goddess of home and family; Aphrodite, goddess of love; and Athena, goddess of war and wisdom. Paris chose love over family, wisdom, and war. My hope was my Paris would always choose love.

I obviously didnt read the original story close enough. Clearly, I chose to read it to reflect my perception of how one should make choices in the world with the hope it would influence his perception of who to be in the world.

Paris chose Aphrodite, love, not because he believed in love, but because it gave him something he wanted, Helen, a kings wife. Much like my Paris made a choice, not because he believes in love, but because he thought it would give him what he wanted: the ability to bring about death and my destruction.

Paris choice led to the destruction of Troy. People died, in the most horrific ways, because of his choice that fateful day. The prince in the epic poem did not end up a hero. He ended up locked behind the walls of Troy as all of Greece came after him. His own people would not hide him since he was hated among them all, as dark death is hated (Iliad).

In my story, the hero-who-is-no-hero kills the princess. My son grew up privileged, well-educated, in a home with a mother who loves him to the moon and back. Yet, despite affluence and affection, Paris, at the age of thirteen, tortured and murdered his little sister Ella, to bring his fantasy of causing anothers death and my destruction into reality.

Paris of Troy was a weak narcissist, but my son Paris is both a narcissist, a sociopath, and possesses worrisome paraphilias. I wasnt given Hecubas prophetic dream. There were not any of the movie-esque warning signs in his childhood which clearly pointed out he was a threat who would destroy my world. As he entered adolescence, I worried he might hurt himself, but I never worried he would hurt anyone else. Especially not Ella. He loved her.

So I thought.

I was wrong. My mistake led to the destruction of my daughter and the destruction of my world.

Now I believe him when he says he has his inner wolf caged deep inside him; I just dont believe in his ability to keep that wolf caged when he no longer lives in a regimented world. He is scheduled for release back into the wild in the not-too-distant future, possibly sooner if hes paroled. I also believe I am the only one who is authentically scared by that knowledge.

Perhaps you want to ask me why it is time to tell my story to the world, from my perspective, in my own words, my way, to whoever chooses to pick it up and read it. Why twelve years later do I feel it necessary to walk down this painful path again to write this book? Why havent I just moved on? Because while the painful path never ends, it is possible to progress down it.

I have progressed to the point when it is time to bring these tragedies, which attempt to hold me down, to leash. I cannot banish them. Trust me; I have tried every way I know to do so. I cannot wish them away; wishes are for fairy tales. My life is no fairy tale. So I learn to tame them.

I expose them. The only way to banish darkness is with light.

Hopefully by the time you read this, I will have progressed a bit further down the path.

My hope is someone else learns something from the tragedies and triumphs contained in these pages.

What is, is, but what never should have happened has turned into the exact thing which needs to happen after any tragedy: something ugly that happened turned into something wonderful and beautiful; something happened that may mean nothing in the long run, but turned into something that brings meaning now; something that allows love to transcend hate; something that allows for creation instead of destruction.

When your life is destroyed, when your reasons for being are taken from you, words are inadequate to describe the pain, the level of devastation; the utter despair and darkness that ensnare and confuse your thoughts, your actions, your very soul. Its impossible to describe the wish to die, desperate to escape the nightmare you find yourself living; hoping death brings peace. If not peace, hopefully brings nothing. No pain. No love. No feeling at all. Feeling nothing felt preferable in the darkness of my reality.

When I wrote the bones of what turned into this memoir, I was dealing with excruciating emotional, spiritual, physical, moral, maternal, psychic conflict resulting in paralyzing pain. And so much more. Like PTSD. Complicated grief. Bi-polar disorder. Addiction. Anxiety.

And all of their incapacitating side effects. Insomnia. Hypervigilance. Paranoia. Self-medication. Suicide attempts. Extreme mood swings. Isolation.

My children were suddenly gone after my son announced himself a sociopath by murdering his little sister. I was under investigation by a legal system which viewed me with suspicion rather than compassion. I was accused of, and believed to be responsible for, turning my son into a murderer; I was accused of not protecting my daughter, the ultimate sin a mother can commit; I was assigned full responsibility for my daughters death. By everyone, including myself.

When I began to write these words, I was watching my daughter rot. Every day, before I fell asleep with her at the funeral home, I traced with my fingers knife wounds that covered her body, every day in the same pattern, every day until she was handed to me in a cardboard box.

I was watching my son turn from the then boy I loved to the now man who both enjoys and could not care less about what he did to his sister, our family, to me. But who cares very much about what he did to himself.

I survived despite the odds stacked against me from birth; I survived to prove to my son he has no say in my destruction, but despite his wishes has almost everything to do with my creation. While I am sure it was not his intention, I met myself, my true self, yet again. For the first time, despite it all, I liked who I met.

When I was writing these words, I created The ELLA Foundation, a nonprofit to aid those whose lives have been affected by violence, mental illness, or the criminal justice system. ELLA speaks just like my Ella did, for herself, for itself. ELLA speaks for me and both of my children. ELLA speaks for all those in pain due to violence, loss, mental illness, incarceration, stigma, and lack of understanding or acceptance.