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.
This is my new wife, Claire — but she doesn’t actually exist
Legislator trying to legalize medical pot because of sister’s suffering
Shame and Fear still stand guard over my efforts to chase dreams
Does the ocean offer the best chance of escaping the state?
Our need for love lets us ignore past pain and feel hope instead
AUDIO: If we’ve experienced hurt, why do we keep trusting in love?
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
It’s hard to take a scary chance, but success can be breathtaking
Romantic attraction is a trickster, appearing when we least expect it
I’ve been sent to Facebook jail — and nothing about it makes sense