I have lost my name.

To be quite honest, I’ve forgotten it. Everything about the old me—the young me—has vanished. I will always, always remember a girl standing, pencil ready in her fingers, fly-away hair tied back into a ponytail, hideous apron stained with food and alcohol, her eyes steady and focused on the creature in front of her. The words May I help you? were misplaced on her lips and so instead she stood there silent, the noise of the cafe a blur around her body, the steady pulse and movement of her fellow waiters and waitresses a confusion to her muddled mind. She was out of the loop—disconnected from the constant sway and ebb of the business surrounding her. So young, only sixteen. A junior in high school, wishing—dreaming—of a life outside of her small town, a life where she could be the violinist she wanted to be.

My name is Jessica. My name is Cassidy. My name is Kayla. My name is Brianna. Sharon, Emily, Natalie, Rachel, Katie, Rose, Amy, Hailey. I am that girl you see, the one everyone pities, the one old women whisper about when they meet together early in the morning at McDonald’s for their coffee and shitty breakfast foods. I am your daughter, your niece, your mother. I am the woman trapped by the fear born out of love and adoration.

This is our story.