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 foreigner had killed 16 Americans, we wouldn’t be looking for excuses
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Being rude in public discourse is about lack of civility, not ‘free speech’
‘Run away with me?’ I couldn’t accept her offer, but I wanted to
My pride and insecurity make it difficult for me to live in humility
FRIDAY FUNNIES
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
Why do humans run away from things we really need the most?
With bumbling federal response, terrorist attack achieved objectives
Why did we slowly let them strip our neighborhoods of most trees?