It was twelve, my parents had just gone to bed and I was laying out my 5 knifes. Which one should I use tonight? I thought to myself. After I set out the now permanently stained towel and the rubbing alcohol, I reached for my dads “misplaced” Army pocketknife. I set the cold metal agents the top of my shin and began to saw away at my unprotected skin. Most people think that when someone decides to cut him or herself they do it rather quickly, but I've always preferred to steadily apply more pressure and savor the burning sting that the blade leaves behind.

I bite my lip to keep from crying out, and wakening my parents. You deserve this, it's your fault, always your fault, everything, every time. This is the one thought that makes me feel the need to “punish myself.” Once I've seen another satisfying dose of blood draining from my shin and dripping onto the towel below I reached for the alcohol. I drenched my now fresh cuts in it, and screamed into my pillow pounding my fist agents the floor. Why do I savor the pain, why do I try to create as much of it as possible?

My mom called over from across the hallway, “Keep it down in there! I’m trying to sleep!” Night after night I thought about not preventing my screams in hopes that my parents would find and stop me. Although I've always secretly wished for such a thing to happen, I didn't have the guts to face my families and friend’s reactions. I could already see their shock, their questions, their disapproval, because of this I'd rather keep it a secret.

All I need is a little help. Is what I always tell myself after I self-harm. And besides, I’m doing what’s right for me. If I didn't bleed my feelings out they would stay inside of me until they finally exploded out, leaving me lost in their attempt to let others in. I could never handle that, letting others know my sadness. So day after day I would wait for something, anything to happen that might help me stop. Then just that happened.

One day I started talking to a girl that would end up changing my life, but I didn't know that yet. Her name is Mo. We struck up a conversation and I kept my armful of scars hidden from her sight. I thought. After a couple of minutes of talking she asked me if I knew what the Butterfly Project was.

When I replied, “No.” She made a note on my hand to have me look it up later. Once again the clock struck twelve. I laid out my nightly routine but this time I had my computer out as well.

I typed “The Butterfly Project” Into Google and clicked on the top link. There was a picture of a sharpie drawn butterfly on a girls arm. Below it I saw steps. After reading them, a single tear fell from my eye. I never cry. In that moment I realized a girl I barley knew was the only one who cared enough to notice and actually wanted to help. Maybe there is some good out there, I thought to myself. I whipped the tear away and walked over to my dresser to grab a sharpie and sat on the floor. I slowly drew a brown butterfly on my arm and named it Mo...