I'm overweight, and I know it. Always have been. And while food isn't love, it's the closest substitute I've ever had. So I ate. And ate. And kept eating.Until I died.Or at least I did in that dream. And let's be realI was on my way to the same fate in real life if I didn't wake the fuck up and clean up my act.It took me way too long to figure out that my stepmom's five-meals-a-day routine wasn't loveit was control. That my stepsister's so-called compliments were just dressed-up insults. That my dad giving me space was just a polite way of saying he couldn't be bothered.So I left. Moved out. Struck out on my own.With a littleokay, a lotof help from a man who would become my mentor, my producer, my roommate.But my boyfriend? No.Music trumps men. Every single time.But can I really build a life that's fulfillingwithout a loving family, without a relationship, without anyone to lean on but myself?I guess I'm about to find out.
