Another One Bites the Stardust: Be Free Mariposa

I’m not exactly sure what my sister died from. A family friend said she overdosed on fentanyl. Another family member said it was meth. I have yet to read the autopsy report myself. But I do know that she overdosed. And she was actively using drugs for a while. I recently found a website called Lifeline for Loss, which is an organization for those who have lost someone to an overdose. With the numerous deaths recently I thought there might be something like that (it’s just getting crazy). They facilitate support groups. They advocate for Narcan and fentanyl testing strips (I don’t have any drugs to test, and I don’t think I’ll ever need Narcan. Fingers crossed). But it exists because there are so many people dying. And it is a problem. 

One of my sister’s drugs of choice was heroin. But I had a friend recently tell me that there is no more real heroin floating around: it is all fentanyl now. Could this be true? Either way, both of those drugs will kill you in the wrong doses. And if you get addicted to painkillers, ie. opioids, you might find yourself on the streets looking for something to get your fix. You just might find yourself doing fentanyl. You might be doing other drugs that are mixed with fentanyl. And I hope you are lucky. 

Justine was not lucky. She was a girl with a “massive heart and a beautiful soul,” said our uncle. It’s true. She came from a good family and she had a decent character, but she hung around with scumbag people (mostly men) and put things in her body she shouldn’t have. I know what addiction is about: it’s about trying to escape or enhance your state of mind and feel a certain way. But addictions can turn physical and then pretty soon your body’s gotta have it. So no matter what hell it put her through she wanted it anyways. Because, honestly, drugs and alcohol feel good and that’s why people do it. In moderate amounts it can be okay, but the way addicts use them, it’s not. The first step of A.A. says “we admitted that we were powerless over alcohol— that our lives had become unmanageable.” Hungover and dopesick: no way to live.

Sobriety can be a beautiful thing, if you let it be. If you’ve been near death you know a second chance is a gift from God. And you cherish it.

She didn’t get a second chance. She sat on a couch and she died with her head hanging down (sorry if that’s too graphic for you). Our grandmother found her on the couch. She thought she was sleeping. I listen to a lot of near death stories (on you tube) and now I more strongly believe in a real heaven full of love, peace, joy, and freedom. And most of all love. People have been there and come back (and I take their word for it), and our human words can’t really describe it. I know she is happy and safe and free, and she does not have to relive the trauma of her death that we replay in our heads. I believe that.

Annie Dillard wrote a wonderful sentence that describes knowledge, but I like to think of it as describing a soul: “[it] wasn’t a body, or a tree, but instead air, or space, or being — whatever pervaded, whatever never ended and fitted into the smallest cracks and the widest space between stars” (from An American Childhood). 

So I made her a “memory box” out of a hollow book I made, filled with stars, charms, seashells, butterflies, the sun and moon, a chunk of amethyst, scraps of paper that say “heaven” and “sisters,” and a hand written copy of The Desiderata, one of her favorite pieces of writings (look it up online. It’s a great motto to live by). A phrase I came up with for her is “Be Free Mariposa” (Spanish for butterfly. She spoke Spanish). I wrote it in sharpie on a butterfly hair clip.

Justine was a hopeless romantic. She was into heavy metal, punk, and emo music. She had stars tattooed on her foot, and “Let It Be” tattooed on her wrist. She loved the wrong men. She gave and she never got back. She liked astronomy, mythology, and fantasy. Her laugh was giddy and contagious, and I loved to make her laugh. She had a dark side but she hid it. She could be argumentative and sarcastic. Really she was too smart for most people.

When she became homeless I pretty much abandoned her. My then boyfriend said she was involved with bad people, and he didn’t want me to get caught up in that. I know he was only trying to protect me. But who was protecting her (when she was shooting up in bathroom stalls)? The family threw her to the wind (or the wolves). We all wanted her to get clean. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. I think we’re all complicit and we’re all sorry.

Meanwhile hardcore addicts are relapsing and overdosing because that’s what happens. That’s the danger. 

Sorry to anyone I may have upset with this post. I thought I should write this.