I remember everything but the why.

I can't remember a lot of the important things. I can't remember the first time I bore my testimony or when I first doubted God and his opinions. I can't remember how many tennis tournaments I played the summer I was sixteen or even how many finals I made, ending up with the second place trophy. I remember I've never won a tournament.

But no matter how hard I try, I can't remember how many shoes I wore through. The number of friends I told before I disappeared or the ones that had to ask my mom where I went. I don't even remember what we agreed her response should be. All I know is she gave a different response than I was expecting.

I can't remember the names of all the boys I've kissed, but I know the number.

I can't remember how old I was when I learned to tie my shoes or why I needed to know so badly anyways. Because my Converse never get any wear out of them anymore.

But I remember the first person who called me a "bitch." It was on the phone in eighth grade. She was the only one fighting. I didn't even know what I was supposed to be fighting about.

I remember the smell of him and the color of the blanket. The mouse in my hair. Trying to keep a straight face. Seeing him in the hallway and crying in Spanish, and the teacher excusing me to go to the bathroom to wash my face. The phone charger she let me borrow. The days I made up reasons to stay afterschool and see teachers and sit in the hall because I didn't want to go home just yet. My mom thought I was seeing a boy. Roah's eye.

I remember when my boyfriend told me a girl had showed him a video of me "masturbating" in seminary. We were passing the library. I remember asking myself why kids had to be so mean.

I remember my first A-. Fourth term of my junior year. Physical education. I couldn't make up enough participation points. I cried in my car, but was too proud to ask the teacher to change my grade. My second A- was the same term.

I remember all the different days I've swam in my clothes. Her hating my hair no matter how I did it. Blocking her sister's view so she couldn't see the couple making out in the back of the movie theatre. Curling my hair before football games. The smell of my car. His car. Her car. The way his fingers touched my skin. Hating the kids who said they liked high school. Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle.

I remember my second grade teacher. At the parent teacher conference, she told my mom that I had written the word "bum" in my journal. I had written, "My sister can't walk. She scoots around on her bum." She talked about how she found it to be offensive. I was too scared to write anything personal in my journal after that.

I remember when we were doing an art project that required one of us to trace another girl's body. There was silence for several minutes. The silence got louder and louder and louder. None of us wanted to volunteer. We hated our bodies too much. It was at an eating disorder clinic.

I remember coming home late. Twenty-two hours late.

I remember saying "no" a thousand times and the first time I said yes. The colors I saw behind my eyelids after staring into the sun. Talking talking talking just to get the words out. Trying to write in treatment but the techs always looking over my shoulder. Sophomores at McDonald's the night of prom offering weed and driving away. All the questions I couldn't answer. Doing my sister's homework even though she was mad at me. Watching home videos and asking myself where that little girl went.

I remember writing a note saying "I like you" to Zach Murdoch in seventh grade. My friends told me to use messy handwriting so it wouldn't look like I tried too hard. Because of the messy handwriting, he didn't believe it was me.

I remember when I rear-ended somebody in front of the school and never told my parents about it.

I remember the headaches, the doctors, the appointments, the drives, the endless not-knowing. The key that came off the keyboard. The labels and wanting one. Being asked if I kissed Landon Hanneman at a party and desperately wanting to say yes. The smell of unwashed bodies at the hospital. Throwing up in the shower. Wishing I was dead. Dreaming I only had twenty-four hours left. The girl tackled in front of me. Talking talking talking. Telling them to shut up.

My first memory is when my sister was born. No, I don't remember seeing the baby. All I remember is going over to my neighbor's house while my dad rushed my mom out the door and absentmindedly eating a McDonald's kid's meal in front of the television. I watched Fox and the Hound.

I remember my first kiss. He later texted my friend and told her how terrible it was. I read the texts the following Monday at her house. Swore I would never leave the house again and hid in her closet.

I remember my last kiss.

I remember the recurring dreams of being pushed down the stairs. Posting pictures on Facebook without makeup and not needing hashtags. Dunking my head in a bowl of ice three times in a row. Feeling like a celebrity when Jacksonville was mentioned in Twilight. Bringing in sharks' teeth when I moved here for "Show and Tell." The weird looks that should have been looks of worship. The memories I can't stop. Looking for the right cord that connects the camera to the computer. Breaking a glass and getting spanked.

I remember hearing my friend was suicidal that Sunday night. It didn't matter I'd been contemplating suicide since eighth grade. I didn't tell her that. My mom drove me over to her house. We had picked out flowers and her favorite brand of protein bars. I wrote her a note too. The envelope was pink.

I remember seeing my red hair in the sink.

I remember seeing that Nelson wrote a blog post about me. I was so proud I showed my sister. And my mom. And my dad.

I remember saying "no" to a wedding proposal in preschool. The nickname "feminazi" because of my feminist views in debate class. Wanting to sleep in the school gym before I graduated. The long blonde hair on all of my black coats. Throwing up in the Timberline bathroom and going back to class like nothing had happened. Dreams that plastic bags were the only thing that could save us. Telling everyone black was my favorite color and loving their reactions more than the color itself.

I remember the hole in the wall and walking to Savannah's house. The police calling my cell phone.

I remember my mom used to write notes on my napkins and put a handful of Hershey's kisses in my home lunches. Sometimes I would use the paper towels Mr. G left on the table instead of smearing my mom's words.

I remember when I slipped on the juice and fell in the lunchroom. The tray went flying. Spaghetti on the floor, marinara on my shirt. The laughter just like in the movies.

I remember the printer. Being proud that I had a copy machine at my house. Sleeping all day and staying up all night. The taste of the water at different friends' houses. Getting my car taken away for a month. Finally learning how to illegally download music. Reading and rereading blog posts because they never seemed complete.

I remember when my little sister first visited me at Center for Change. She told me this place looked like Dr. Phil behind the scenes. She had a lot of suggestions. She said that this would be a lot more exciting if they had a "Celebrity Day" every month. More pictures on the walls. Televisions in the visiting rooms "to make it more homey." I had to tell her I couldn't come to Lagoon, and she asked if it made a difference if we took a doctor with us.

I remember hearing about Brandon over the pulpit in sacrament meeting.

I remember writing a page in the book he inspired. I left a lot out. Some parts my mom didn't want me to say and some parts I didn't want to admit to myself yet.

I remember hitting the backspace bar at least twenty times on each of these paragraphs.

I remember he would pick the mascara off my eyelashes and she would use the word "chunk" like it was a compliment. Laughing because I got the award for "best dreads." The smell of the chlorine in the bathroom. When I dropped the dog on the stairs and my dad twisted my arm back and yelled at me.

I remember when I first moved here and realizing how dry it was. My knuckles bled when my grandpa held my hand and I prayed he wouldn't notice. The smell of cigarette smoke making me nauseous. The red button and the recording and the screaming.  Dry heaving into the pink bins. The plastic bags. Counting the dents in my walls.

I remember Mother's Day. And how I always wanted to reschedule the day for happier times.