"Remember?" She said.

"When you were that small?" As she holds up a photo of you dressed like a fairy for Halloween at 4 years old.

You nod and smile but you don't remember a thing about that night.

The things you remember are not like that.

You remember nightmares you thought were real that wouldn't allow you to sleep without a nightlight to keep the monsters out of your room at night.

You start to remember the way he touched you telling you its a special way that he loves you.

You remember bathing next to your baby sister and not getting a second bath when she peed, or worse in the tub because your parents couldn't afford that much for water.

You remember going on three-hour walks with your anorexic mom who was fading away into skin stretched around bone.

You remember promising yourself that you never want to be that thin.

You remember breaking that promise the first time you threw up that meal.

You remember breaking, and how you are breaking again and again.