Hi. I’m Shawna. This is my story.
When I was 10, my mom had asked my brother and I what we would think if we moved back to where she grew up, which was four hours away. My parents had gotten a divorce three and a half years ago, when I was seven. Of course, this was the first time that it had been brought up in our family of three that now lived in a nice little town house on top of the hill. This was in early June. Before I knew it, it was August, and we were packing up all of our things and loading them into a brightly colored yellow Penske truck parked outside of our little blue house with the broken porch swing. I remember getting into my mother’s truck and waving goodbye for the last time to my small pink room (I used to love the color, don’t judge.) I remember walking up out stairs, sitting on the roof for the final time, and remembering everything that I would never forget, always remember. I was numb for most of the drive to our new house that my mother’s parents had bought. It was a nice, split level, 4 bed, 2 bath house with a double garage and three acres. When we arrived, my grandfather had hired a few men to help us move out furniture and larger items into the new home. It had only been a week or so when school started here at mom’s hometown. I was going into fifth grade. Keep in mind, my old school was only a 1A and my current school, this very same one, is a 4, almost 5A. I had been one of the most well-known and most popular kids at my school, everybody seemed to like me well enough, and I still liked myself. Then, I was pulled from there and drug to a new school where I didn’t know the slightest soul. There were about 23 kids or so in my fifth grade homeroom, about 170 in the whole grade. I had managed to get the meanest and most horrid teacher. Wonderful. I didn’t really want to talk anyone and no one really seemed interested in me either, so it all worked out. Then this boy started talking to me, his name was Ahren. He’s been a life-saver, literally. But, he and I would always talk to each other and I had been cutting for about three months by now, and finally, just after we got back from Christmas break, I had shown him my scars. My arms were laced with them, but most now are faded as I have moved to my left thigh for the most part. He asked me what had happened, and I hesitated to tell him the truth and really if he wanted to know. So, I knew I’d feel even worse if I lied to the poor kid about it. So I told him the truth. All of it. He made me promise to never do this to myself again, and, I told him I wouldn’t, knowing that I had lied to him in the end. It was just another empty, hollow, fake promise that I couldn’t keep to anyone. As the year finished up, it just kinda blurred by, I got good grades and everything, wasn’t bullied or anything either. Sixth grade was also the same way, then on May 16, 2013, there was one girl that had apparently found out that I cut, and she made fun of me and bullied me for it. So I punched her. In the face. Got my little smartass into ISS for the last day of school. That was fun, met a kid called Max. School ended and summer began. Then on the twenty third, I was wearing jeans to cover my scars, and a short sleeved shirt. I was at the park, with one of my few friends, and Ahren had seen me there and asked if he could talk to me for a minute. I shrugged and told him sure, he pulled me to the side and asked me out. So that happened. I’ve been with him ever since, he’s been with me through everything, I even made a few more friends in seventh grade, and eventually told my story to a few of them as well. One of them told me that she cut too. She told me about the butterfly project. I looked it up and read the rules and a bunch of other’s stories who also told about their cutting and how the butterfly project has helped them. I have been doing it for months now, every time a butterfly flies away, I draw a new one. Or two. Or several. How many have died you ask? Only 2. And now, I’ve been 44 days clean. September fifth will be my fiftieth day clean. And then October 26th? Yeah, that’s gonna be one hundred. And I’m gonna make it to one hundred. I will. I’ve told another few friends that have cut about the butterfly project, and they say it’s a distraction from the constant urge to cut, they roll up the long loose sleeves to tear into that precious arm once again, but see the butterfly and the name instead of the long, white scars. It’s really been a great thing for me. Thank you for taking the time out of your day and reading my story to you all about how the butterfly project has helped me. Thank you so much to whoever invented the Butterfly project as well, you’ve saved so many people from not only self-harm and cutting again, but death itself. Me included. I’m thirteen years old now. It’s been officially one night since I had that blade in my hand once again, but my most recent butterfly had been drawn last night as well. July 16th 2014 is my last cut date. And I plan it to be my one, two, 10 plus years clean. Thanks.