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 real—I 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 love—it 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 little—okay, a lot—of 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 fulfilling—without a loving family, without a relationship, without anyone to lean on but myself?

I guess I'm about to find out.