I still remember the first time my father called me “fat.”
I was 9 years old. He and I were standing in the driveway of our home in Meridian, Miss. In just a couple of months, we would move yet again — to Anniston, Ala., this time.
He poked his finger into my little chest as we stood there. I don’t remember his exact words, but I remember being very confused at his anger. Nobody had ever said a word about my weight before. I seemed to be about the same proportions as all my friends, although I was slightly taller and was built bigger than they were. But my father angrily told me I had to start running — so I wouldn’t be fat.
I felt very ashamed of myself.
Not only did this mean I must look terribly ugly to everybody, but I had obviously disappointed my father. More than anything else, I wanted his approval — and I couldn’t ever seem to do enough. Or be enough.
If he cheats at Cracker Barrel, he’ll eventually cheat you, too
Italy sending seismologists to jail for failing to predict big earthquake
Not voting makes a statement: ‘You don’t have my moral consent’
Surreal dream wakes, shakes me; which is reality, which is dream?
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
Is this what happens when you teach children there are no absolutes?
Going back to fundamentals gets me closer to the quality I want
After his death, I can finally see good in narcissistic father again