"The Girls Filming My Misery Didn’t Realize Who Was Watching From the Tinted Windows. They Thought I Was Trash. Now They’re About to Find Out Who I Really Am. January in Oak Ridge doesn't just bite; it chews. The wind coming off the lake feels like a thousand tiny needles against my face, but the cold inside my chest is worse. I stood at the bus stop, clutching my backpack like a shield, trying to disappear into the collar of my thrift-store jacket. My toes were already numb. The soles of my sne