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The beginning of my journey started the twelfth of July, just two months before I started the fifth grade. The air was fiery than usual, vivid beads of sweat prominently placed on my forehead.

     I remember being in the backseat of my mother's car, sucking onto a red lollipop. A southern song blasted from the radio, while  my mother sang along. My father was taking a weekend twelve hour shift over at his auto-shop. This was never directly spoken to me, but I paid attention.

     They needed money for my sister's ballet classes. And my mother was tired of having to do work on the side on the side for extra money. That was when my father came into play. The two of them—for as long as I can remember, were always fighting about money. It didn't matter if we were at a family gathering, or the grocery store, they were somewhere in background spitting out numbers.

     My sister and I didn't care much for money. We just liked music and cowboy boots. One year, for our ninth birthday, we received the same pair of brown, two-stepping pair of boots as presents. We didn't take them off for weeks. My mother didn't care, she was just happy we weren't arguing.

     That particular drive, though, was one worth remembering. With my boots on my feet, a lollipop on my tongue, and country music blasting in my ears—I was unstoppable. And my sister being right next to me didn't help it one bit. All that did was fuel me into thinking nothing, and nobody could hurt me.

     But that thought was shot down to hell when I visited my grandparents one late, Saturday afternoon. My grams was cooking eggs and sausage on the stove, while my pop was reading the weakly news in his rocking chair. My sister didn't waste another second before going to their small backyard, beginning her bother with their roosters and chickens.

     I warned her about them. Said, that one day, they'd bite her finger right off for bothering them so much. She, of curse didn't believe me—walking about all on her own.

     My mother left us there, only sparing us one last peck on the cheek before explaining that she had work business to tend to. I didn't believe her. She knew this. She always told me that for a ten year old—I had a bad habit of sticking my nose where it didn't belong. I didn't understand what she meant then, but I do now.

     "Where is mommy always off to, grams? Why doesn't she ever stay for dinner?" I had always asked at some point.

     And grams had always answered with a swift shrug, "you know how it is, sweetheart. She works a lot, that's how she keeps you girls happy, and with food in your bellies."

     Melanie would sigh, folding both arms across her already amplifying chest at the time, "but grams, I read somewhere that we don't really need food in our bellies, just water. And Jules never drinks water."

     I would turn, and wack at her arm, while grams would frown at how often both Melanie and I would argue, or lie hands on one another.

     "Girls, knock it off. You know your mother would kill me, if she back and you two were crying, all black and blue from hitting each other." Grams always said this. Always so afraid of what my mother would do if she made a mistake while watching us.

     And while knowing my mother, I undoubtedly knew that my mother would absolutely lose her mind if something happened to either of us. And only later in life, I would realize just how ironic that really was.

     Everything that could have possibly gone wrong after that—did. Everything slipped away. From mountain climbing, to sky diving. Sickness is something you never imagine happening to you.

     It's like something you talk about, maybe even jokingly. But you don't ever see it coming. It's funny to think how a ten-year-old, who'd never purposely damaged her lungs once, could end up with such a sickness. It almost made me laugh.

     The world must have had some sort of issue with me, because on what universe, does a ten-year-old get lung cancer? My universe, I later found out.

The years leading up to my seventeenth, were—uneventful, to say the least. I spent my days welting away in doctors visits, and my nights silently drafting away in journal.

     The same journal where every one of my secrets lied. Every crush, every celebrity crush, every thought, and every annoyance that came with having a twin. Especially, when that twin is Melanie Hampshire.

     There were some days, late nights I'd spend in my own bed, where Melanie would be out with friends, or rather, her boyfriends, and I would be left alone in my direct solitude. Completely filled with my favorite iced coffee, and my signature perfume.

     When I was young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, I would suck in my stomach in my bedroom's mirror, and watch as my body imitated what I'd see on magazines or the television.

     But soon, my body began to flatten on its own, due to immense amounts of medication and chemotherapy. My skin began to pale, even more than it already had been considering both my mother and father's natural coloring.

     My hair would fall softly, when I showered, as it's stands would thin out day by day, night by night.

     Whenever I caught sight of myself in the nearest window, or reflection, I would look away in fear. Fear of my own reflection, fear that it was actually me.

     Fifteen-year-old me couldn't stand the thought. Because for some God-awful reason, other girls my age, alike my sister, were all out losing their virginities, while I was losing both my hair—and mind.

     But I swore to myself that I would never open up about my insecurities, and whenever I had a concern or falsity—the internet was my very best friend.

     Whenever I was alone, I'd look at images of women in their absolute prime, with bodies that seemed to contain zero body fat, but still carried both muscle and curve. Which mine, coincidentally lacked.

     When my parents had racked through my search history, and had found the images, they asked if maybe I felt something for other girls. If maybe, I had some certain feelings I'd like to disclose.

     I distinctively remember my cheeks burning red, while I tried my best to explain, that I was in every way, infatuated with boys.

     And I could almost see the tears bubbling through my father's eyes as I told him about my insecurities. And exactly why I had been searching up those pictures.

     "Those girls aren't perfect either, Jules. These pictures are meant to make people feel insecure about their bodies. These girls are people just like us. They have families, siblings. And this right here," he pointed to the blondes flat stomach, "is called photoshop. Everybody eats, and everybody gains a pound or two every now and then."

     I nodded my head, as a slow tear made its way down my pale cheek. "I-I know, pa, it's just—"

     My father stood, and held me in those familiar arms that meant nothing peace and love, "no buts, Jules. You are loved here, by me, your mother, and Melanie, no matter how you look, what you do, or who you are. Please don't forget that."

     And I didn't.