non fiction essay please be harsh I'm editiing

When a caterpillar turns into a butterfly she splits her skin, wraps herself in a cocoon of spit and settles in for unimaginable pain. She waits in that silken prison each moment stretching, blending into the next, and when she emerges, we ooh and ah and admire her lovely wings never knowing what it costs her. I was twenty three  before I knew her agony. Twenty one before I realized that change is painful, screaming, sobbing, into an old t-shirt, trying to catch those vestiges of scent; I knew they couldn't last forever, I knew eventually I would lose even the odor of that old t-shirt that I had once begged to throw in the laundry.
It’s strange but what triggers change for the butterfly is absence, the absence of a hormone that protects her from changing too early. Slowly, the hormone disappears from her body bit by bit,
Until it’s sheltering presence is gone, and she is alone in the world.
      Seamed stockings and rope. New fingers bound me, a willing victim in a cocoon of nylon and polyester. Sometimes pain is good. A way to live in the moment and wake up cold and icy skin. Grab the pain and hold it, because a little bit of masochism is better than my empty apartment with the men’s wristwatch, and the old t-shirt, and the silent phone. Does the butterfly see it coming? When she wraps herself in silk does she know that pain True pain is just around the corner.
I didn’t when the phone rang at 10 am. The day before thanksgiving I had know idea, but it’s bad when his parents call you. I remember the words hospital, sick, funeral, and then a blood curdling scream. I remember the arms of a friend and tripping over the stares. They don’t tell you how fast it goes. Embalmer, casket, wake funeral goodbye.
      For a butterfly it takes two weeks. Two weeks of agony. Two weeks of one endless moment. For me it took a year. One night stands are fun when your pissed: when life seems like a game. Warm skin, soft lips, a different scent. I applied orgasms like bandages and for awhile it worked.
Does the butterfly, when she flutters her multicolored wings, miss the way she existed before the pain, or does she value the change? There are crumpled letters in my desk drawer. There are Facebook messages that no one will ever read, and artifacts of another life scattered in my bedroom, but when I paint my lips in sultry red, a color I would have never dared before, I know that I like the butterfly have become a new thing entirely. I know something about change.