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.
Father who I saw as Mr. Morality turned out to be a liar and a thief
I don’t know how to amuse you into taking your future seriously
Fear of possible violence keeps some people trapped by misery
Meeting with dead man left me pondering choices of life, death
What does it take to hold thug with a badge accountable for murder?
Idiotic idea of the year: Turn email over to the U.S. Postal Service
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
Mental illness can be hidden in any family, changing lives forever
If you believe in these campaign fairy tales, welcome to Fantasy Island
I’m losing need to explain myself to those who misunderstand me