The ELLA Foundation

ELLA Foundation Blog

How Now Butterfly?

February 27,2007

Twenty-three days have passed since my son stabbed my daughter to death.

My Ella Bella is gone from me forever. She died a horrible and violent death by her brother’s hands. I now live in a nightmare while awake and asleep. I believe I have become severely depressed. I am too anxiety ridden to go to public places. I have no answers and nothing makes any sense. I have no idea how to make it through this one. Part of me wants to disintegrate while another part says I have to, must, make it through one more day.

I love my son yet I hate him for this. I want my Ella Bella back. I can never have her back. I want Paris to be happy, sane, and healthy. I can’t have that either. He is lost to me too. He will grow up in jail or a mental institution. I can never allow him to come home to me. I am scared of my own son.

My son stabbed my daughter to death and then called a friend and talked for 6 minutes. Then he called 911. Was my daughter in bed, dying, while he called a friend? Could she have been saved? Is my son telling the truth? Was it deliberate or did he really have a psychotic break? Thirteen years ago I gave birth to a boy who would grow up to kill his own sister. Did I give birth to evil? Is there something I missed in raising him that caused this? Or is it genetics?

Why Ella Bella? Why? She was my girl. My diva. My extrovert who loved everyone. Especially her brother. She gave me such joy.

I miss her fat legs. I miss the way she said Charity. I miss listening to her sing and dancing with her. I miss her Princess Barbie teeth. I miss sleeping next to her in bed, even the times she woke me up with her tossing and sleep talking. I miss how she throws leg over my back and her arm around my neck and says, “Oh Mama, I love you so much”. I miss her ‘yo mama’ battles with her brother and me. I miss her quirky fashion statements and her asking me if she looked “slexy”. I miss showering with her. I miss her laugh and I miss the sound of her voice. I miss asking her what she learned the end of each school day. I miss being bossed around and told what to say. I miss watching cartoons on Saturday mornings.

Most of all I miss hugging her and doing all of our kisses—hippo, Eskimo, butterfly, and Mama kisses.

Everything that meant everything is gone. Forever. How do I learn to live in a world where the murder of your daughter by your son is possible? How do I find purpose in my life now that my purpose in life is gone? My children are gone—each in their own way.

And it is all Paris’ fault. How is it possible to love and hate my son in one fell swoop? As my grief, depression, and anxiety increase so does my resentment towards Paris. I will never see my daughter again. That is Paris’ fault. I will never be able to mother Paris again. That is Paris’ fault. I live in hell and I am coming apart at the seams. That is Paris’ fault. My children were my reason for being. These reasons are gone now. That is Paris’ fault.

There is nothing in this world as precious to me as my kids. How will I ever find anything this precious again? How do I find a reason for being as compelling as my two kids?

What have I done to deserve so much pain and loss? I am a good mother yet we all make mistakes.

How am I going to make it through this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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