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.
We who believe life has meaning have lost war for modern culture
DC hypocrites act like spoiled kids on playground by pointing fingers
Why do we put off changes that might give meaning to our lives?
Hiding anger was a survival skill, so you might not know I’m angry
They won’t listen to arguments; they might listen to honest art
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.