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The Butterfly and the Semicolon

Body Art

By Christopher DonovanPublished 3 years ago Updated about a year ago 7 min read
5

I had decided upon the date a long time ago. October 2020. That would be the month I would get my first tattoo.

The date wasn't arbitrary - I hadn't simply plucked October 2020 from the ether. It was loaded with significance.

For that would mark a year since my break-down, and the night I considered suicide.

My emotional disintegration, when it eventually occurred, was a long time in the making. Decades of poor mental health, combined with a series of life events that (looking back now) I still can't believe all followed hot on the heels of each other, resulted in the utter destruction of my fragile self-esteem.

One night, I decided 'enough was enough', and thought about taking my life. This wasn't some vague, depressive impulse; I was spent, had nothing left, and had even got as far as knowing how I would commit suicide.

But I didn't.

For eighteen months I’d worked as a Mental Health Support Worker. Although it played a huge part in my breakdown, ultimately, that job proved to be my salvation.

A lot of the clients I’d supported regularly endured their own long dark nights of the soul, and the main part of my job was to help them through it. How? First, just listen - simply be there and show them someone cared. You'd be amazed at how effective that can be.

However, if that didn’t work, it was time to involve the local Mental Health Crisis Team.

This had happened so often, that the mere mention of the word ‘suicide’ evoked a Pavlovian reaction in me: ‘Crisis Team.’ And, without thinking, it was to those people I turned when I had no hope left.

I was admitted to a psychiatric ward twenty-fours later.

Although it was a harsh place, my brief stay in the ward saved me. It took me out of the 'eye of the storm', and gave me a chance to catch my breath, metaphorically speaking. Once my 'crisis' period passed, I was discharged. However, that only meant I was about to begin the hardest part of my journey - recovery.

Then Coronavirus arrived.

If I felt isolated before, it was nothing when compared to the solitary existence that came with the 'Lockdown.' Recovery was hard enough, thank you - having to do so during a global pandemic seemed a cruel trick to play on me.

However, that was the hand I had been dealt.

My life became a journey of tiny, halting, baby-steps. Thoughts of what might happen in a few years became irrelevant. I had long-term goals but these were only to be hinted at; for now, it was about putting one foot in front of the other, second-by-second, minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, day-day-day.

The only exception to this was my tattoo.

Initially, the idea of getting one started out as no more than a way to tick something off my 'bucket list.' I had always wanted one, but had never mustered the courage, nor found something I would be happy to have permanently inked on me for life. But, I was different now.

What I had been through had changed me; the thought of the pain a tattoo would cause, or the knowledge that it would remain a part of me forever, didn't scare me. To be honest, such things appear trivial after a breakdown.

Life seems simpler after a near-death experience: I wanted a tattoo, and - finances permitting - would get one. That was it.

However, as I began to consider what tattoo I wanted, its importance grew. A tattoo is normally significant; the stories behind the body art of my friends and family members were never trivial, and each referenced either an event in their life or a loved one. Mine would do the same.

For, not only would I make it to a year, I would mark the occasion. I would mark my journey, and celebrate that I was still here, still fighting. Celebrate that I was still alive, and still battling those demons that, one year ago, nearly convinced me that my life wasn't worth living.

My tattoo would be an indelible reminder of both of my survival, and my journey towards recovery.

All that remained was 'how' I'd do that.

Should I simply have the date of my discharge subtly written somewhere I could easily cover (or hide)? Or perhaps I could choose a meaningful quote? There was no shortage of options on this front, but nothing ever jumped out at me, and screamed, "This is it!"

And then I stumbled across 'Project Semicolon.'

I'd heard about this before. For someone who worked in mental health, and reads a lot about it, there was no way I could have been entirely oblivious to it. However, it had never really registered before. Perhaps I'd sub-consciously dismissed it as yet another well-meaning, but an ultimately vacuous, contribution to the mental well-being debate.

But, now, having actually come close to ending my life, 'Project Semicolon' didn't seem empty anymore. In fact, it couldn't be any more significant.

That was me: I was the author of my life, and I had chosen - and will keep on choosing - to carry on writing (metaphorically, and literally) my story. I still didn't know what shape my tattoo would take, but I now knew that a semicolon would be at the heart of it.

(It may seem daft, but as someone who aspires to be a writer, the thought that the basis of my tattoo would be a grammatical device also amused me.)

But, still, it wasn't enough. This was a 'big' event I was marking. As much as the semicolon seemed perfect, it also didn't seem enough. I wanted to 'go big or go home', I wanted to show the world I was proud of my journey; with the semicolon, I was only halfway there.

And then I found the butterfly.

If the semicolon seemed to have been designed specifically for me, then the added motif of the butterfly was doubly so.

My life is far from perfect. Very, very far. But, I am in an immeasurably better place than I was a year ago. I was lost, broken, and an echo of a man twelve months ago.

Today, I'm still a little lost, but at least I know where I'm heading. I may still be broken, but I'm also repairing myself. And an echo? That echo has got louder, more strident; I'm reclaiming my voice, and day by day, its timbre is growing stronger.

Have I had a 're-birth'? Actually, yes - I think I have. I do feel 'reborn.' Although I still have days when I struggle, I do see myself as a caterpillar who is slowly transforming himself into a butterfly. The end result is important; if I can come out of this experience with even a fraction of the beauty a butterfly has, then I've won. I've done it.

But, it's not just about the ultimate transformation into the butterfly that is significant; it's the journey towards that point that truly matters.

My breakdown was the equivalent of me dissolving into a pile of goo. Because I did; I became a walking, breathing, mentally ill, toxic blob. But, it was from that steaming pile of goo that, slowly, over the course of a year, I emerged. I haven't yet tried out my (metaphorical) wings, but I know they're there.

Hour by hour, I'm becoming that butterfly.

And that is what my tattoo was going to tell everybody.

It's going to boldly shout that I carried on when I had nothing left to give. I may have gotten a million things wrong during that process, but I haven't given up. I didn't throw in the towel. Instead of writing a full stop, I chose a semicolon, and chose to keep that sentence - my life - going.

I'm still here. Still fighting.

And, out of all that misery, and trauma, I've emerged as something different. A butterfly. I and my life are not yet beautiful, but I'm not going to stop until it is.

And my tattoo will represent that in glorious, permanent technicolour.

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About the Creator

Christopher Donovan

Hi!

Film, theatre, mental health, sport, politics, music, travel, and the occasional short story... it's a varied mix!

Tips greatly appreciated!!

Thank you!!

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