Rebel Butterfly and the Butterfly Project

Rebel Butterfly

I promised her. I promised her I would never do it again. I want to keep my promise to her, but sometimes it’s so hard.

Now I’ve got my knife. I turn it around in my hands, feeling the cold steel of the blade. One more cut. One more slash. I’ll feel better. No-I won’t. I fought for the freedom of my country. Why can’t I fight my own mind? I don’t want to be thrown in one of those places.

“Please don’t do this Stormy. Please fight this! Look at how hard you’ve been fighting for our freedom. You can fight this. I know you can…” she had begged me…just hours before she had been struck down by gunfire from the British Army.

What would she say?

What would Padraic, Joe, and the others say?

It hurts. It hurts so bad. She’s gone. I don’t want to bother Mam or the Countess.  Grace, Joe’s wife of seven hours, is always too tired and sad herself. I can’t bring her down more. And there’s no way I’m going to Da about it. He’d just tell me “This is what you get for following that rebel Pearse and his gang, girl! May their souls rot forever!”

Maybe I am going mad. Maybe I should be put in-well-one of those places.

Or what if I just ended it all right here and now? If I slashed my wrists deep enough…and then I’d be with her again.

I still see it. Her lying in a pool of her blood, red like her beautiful hair, while the battle rages around us. Me screaming her name, blindly firing my rifle into the air, not caring if I hit someone on the rebel’s side, our side. I still hear the gunshots from the execution block that I heard from my cell on that cold May morning over a year ago.

“An Dhia dean trocaire!” I shout.

I can’t live with the memories anymore. I can’t.

I’m kneeling in my parent’s garden, holding the knife. Just do it, Stormy!

I raise the blade and bring it to my skin.

Then something catches my eye. It’s a butterfly. A beautiful red butterfly. It flutters over to me and lands on my shoulder. I reach up to brush it away, but then stop.

You are never alone.

You are strong.

You are a fighter.

You are a warrior, like your ancestor, whose name you bear…Stormy Maeve Johnson.

Why were those thoughts beginning to run through my head?

Before I know what I am doing, I stand up…and hurl the knife as far as I can through the air. The sky has clouded over and a summer rain has began to fall. I stand out in the rain, allowing myself to become soaked. I don’t mind being wet.

I look up to the clearing sky. I want to live for ye, Aoife. I fought for Irish freedom. I can fight this. I want to live. And I will live.

I make myself a promise. Every time I want to cut, I instead will think of a butterfly. In a way, I am like a butterfly. If I cut, the butterfly will die.

I look to my side to see a small patch of daisies growing. I smile. Daisies had always been her favorite flowers. Maybe I’ll bring her some. I had never had the heart to go to her grave yet. But it’s time. As she died for freedom, I will live for freedom…and for her.  

The Butterfly Project for self-harmers who feel that they are ready to stop:

Draw a butterfly with a marker on the place that you usually self-harm and give it the name of someone that you care about. Don't wash the butterfly off! If you cut, you kill the butterfly. As you can see I did something slightly different with Stormy's situation-I had her turning her mind to a butterfly every time she felt like cutting to distract herself instead of drawing one on her, as the actual Butterfly Project wasn't around in her time of course, (a self-harmer in reality likely would have been institutionalized, as was said) but I wanted to bring attention to positive methods of coping. I bet Stormy's method could actually work for many people if they tried!