Birthday cake

When I was 12 or 13, I remember being at my sister's house for my niece's birthday. She was turning two or three. I can picture the house, the deck, the backyard. I can almost remember what I was wearing and how long I played on the swing set with my nieces.

I can definitely remember the cake -- and how good it was. So good that I went back for a second piece. One of my brothers chastised me, "do you really think you need that?"

Already shy, already insecure, already painfully aware of my weight, I cringed inside for being called out, for being humiliated in front of the family. I was mortified. I fought back the tears and pushed the cake away.

Later, at home, I was laying on my older sister's bed watching TV. She wasn't home. My parents came in the room. My mother stood there, with a stupid grin on her face. My father -- usually the quiet one, usually the one who didn't deal with this kind of stuff -- sat on the bed and tried to rationalize the cake incident from earlier in the day, tried to make me understand that it was done out of love. And I remember this as if it were yesterday. "Do you know how proud your brothers would be if you lost a little weight?"

I bit my lip and nodded. The last thing I wanted was to cry. The last thing I needed was a hug from him. I was fat, and until I wasn't fat, I wouldn't be loved totally. That was the message that I got that day.

That message would haunt every relationship I've had with a man.