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.
The more I understand humans, the less I really comprehend us
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How can I make sense of a world that’s fundamentally nonsensical?
We like to think we’re complex, but personality gurus pegged me
What happens if a vampire bites your neck? Vampire mythology tells us the victim can become a vampire, too.
If you ask wrong questions about politics, you’ll get wrong answers
I want my children surrounded by tools of creation, not consumption
Pearl Harbor: Simple sneak attack or culmination of FDR’s plan for war?