I have had seventeen birthdays including the day I was born. I have lived in three houses and two apartments, have had four dogs and five cats, have dislocated my left elbow twice. I have kissed three boys and three girls, have been one boy's first kiss, one boy's first time, another boy's first "I love you", I have never touched him. I have smoked marijuana twice and been caught once. I have worn a bow tie three times, have been called a dy*e four, have hit someone for it once. I have been a vegetarian for three years and have slipped and eaten meat five times. I have been through the same divorce twice in one week because my mom thought she had changed her mind; I have never told her how much worse that made it. I have tried to eat grapefruit twice since the night I regurgitated that flavor of vodka, I have failed both times. I have gone forty-two days straight without drinking alcohol. I have woken up and mistaken morning breath for the aftertaste of beer too many times to count. I have held three of my closest friends after they were touched without consent. I have made the boy who convinced me to sext him even though he knew I was drunk apologize once; he never felt sorry. I have heard the three words "I love you" from one boy, I had to tell him he didn't mean it four times, had to tell him not to kiss me six even though I wanted him to, reminded myself every time that he was on his tenth shot. I have forty-eight visible scars on my body from the times it was too hard to love myself, have told three different therapists the same two things phrased differently every time: one, I'm sad, two, I don't know how to stop it. I have cried three times in the past week. One was over the three friends that I have held after they were touched without consent, one was over the boy who said he loved me, one was over the boy who convinced me to sext him even though he knew I was drunk. I still talk to him five times a week, take one deep breath, count to three, and force myself not to pull away every time he touches me, spend the next eight minutes between classes trying to pull myself together, remind myself it was only one time. I have not been alone with the boy who said he loved me in six weeks. I have thought about kissing him every day for the past three-hundred and eight days. I have had three dreams about him, each one recurring two, seven, or four times. I have been reminded by strangers of the way he looks at me six times. I have tried to kill myself once, drank four beers and seven shots of five assorted liquors, drug a razor across my skin eleven times, called three people for help, one answered. I stopped trying to hide the scars on my wrist after thirty-four days of wearing sweaters in eighty-something degree heat, have seen twelve people stare at my arm, received disapproving looks from four of them, have never been asked for an explanation. I have commented on how pretty the sun looks on the ten minute ride to school with my brother every morning for the past two weeks. I have complimented at least one person a day every day for the past two years. I have worn my favorite beanie at least sixty times in the past year and there is nothing wrong with that. I laughed fifty-seven times yesterday. I said "I love you" eleven. I have chosen to be alive every day for five thousand, nine hundred, thirty three days. I have never made the wrong choice.