But I know better than to tell Mom that I got my character inspiration from her erratic and violent behavior. That would only invoke more erratic and violent behavior. I want her calm. I want her steady. I want her happy.

“Yeah. Actually, I have to bring over some fresh paperwork because it’s technically a principal role.” Mom’s almost shaking with joy. “How did this happen?” “Well, the little girl we hired wouldn’t take direction—she just kept smiling no matter how many times we told her to look sad. But not your daughter. She’s got a great sad face,” he laughs.

good investment for one person might be a bad investment for another.”

I jump into Mom’s arms. She squeezes me. I’m elated. Everything’s going to be different now. Everything’s going to be better. Mom will finally be happy. Her dream has come true.

Mom told me she never wanted me to be humiliated like that again, so she signed me up for fourteen dance classes a week—two each of jazz, ballet, lyrical, musical theater, and hip-hop, plus one of stretching and three of tap—and told me two background jobs a month will cover the costs. I actually like dance. A lot. I like moving my body, it gets me

The emotions are the problem, the words aren’t. Forcing emotions into a thing is uncomfortable in the first place, but then putting on those emotions for other people to see feels gross to me. It feels weak and vulnerable and naked. I don’t want people to see me like that.

notice that most foods add a little body weight to me, four-tenths of a pound or so. I know this because I weigh myself five times a day. Five is my lucky number, so this amount of daily weigh-ins seems appropriate. I also want to make sure that I’m staying on top of every single shift in my body so that I can make proper adjustments and be on

My mom didn’t deserve her pedestal. She was a narcissist. She refused to admit she had any problems, despite how destructive those problems were to our entire family. My mom emotionally, mentally, and physically abused me in ways that will forever impact me.

I remember The Great Pornography Debacle of ’03. Mom caught Dad watching pornography—a major sin in Mormonism—and kicked him out of the house again, that time for a month. She insisted that I call him by his first name—“Mark”—after that. I did until she died.