I don’t remember a lot. My childhood is bits and pieces of fabricated memories. To the world I am a smart, happy, eccentric girl, but to my family or anyone who knows the real story, I am broken. To them I have a past, to them I have survived with a few scrapes and bruises. They see a girl how cannot seem to listen to what she is told, a girl who is in and out of therapy, a girl who gets lost inside her own head. On paper I look like an above average survivor. My mom is an addict and an alcoholic, my dad is out of state, I live with my aunt and uncle, I have had to change schools twice in the past 3 years, but my grades are stupendous. I keep my head together, I have a plan for college and I’m working towards my goals. That’s me on paper. The me that jumps out of the pages that everyone decides to skip is different. This me is sad, but she doesn’t understand why she’s sad. Some days she is numb, like no words could even reach her, and other days she is a sea of emotion. She is slowly breaking under the pressure of school and trying to be normal, trying to fix herself. She is angry at the world, even though the world has done nothing to her. She is scared of what people say about her but at the same time she doesn’t care if she gets labeled, because in her mind labels are things people place on each other without knowing the truth. All they know is what is on paper. She is shy but at the same time she is too loud. She is funny but most of her jokes revolve around her self-hatred. She is me. My name is Taylor. This is me.