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.
Ban on saggy pants: Why do we require laws against looking foolish?
This week marks 15 years for a website that has evolved wildly
Does every loss of love finally become a case of ‘sour grapes’?
Angry and bitter people often misunderstand one another
Epiphany: Was it so bad that I used to work toward perfection?
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
Obama channeling Heinlein’s ghost: ‘…we’ve had a run of bad luck’
U.S. debt per capita worse than basket cases such as Greece