I was five when I first fell off of my bike. I scraped my elbow and knees; I didn’t have any knee and elbow pads because you said my sister needs them more than I did, but I doubt you remember. It was my eighth birthday when you signed my sister up for dance and not me because I weighed more, but I doubt you remember. I was ten when I missed two weeks of school because you made me believe that I was sick, but you were the one sick with Munchausen Syndrome, but I doubt you remember.  I was thirteen when you spotted and laughed at the tiny red marks masking my left arm, but I doubt you remember. I was fifteen when you sold me to our downstairs neighbor for drug money, but I doubt you remember. I was sixteen when I was hospitalized for my first suicide attempt and when you arrived, you said “ You are better off dead.” But I doubt you remember. I am nineteen and after intensive care and years of therapy visits, I have learned to love myself. I have remembered everything you taught me about forgetting and I learned to forget about you.