Ok...two excerpts from my novel attempt for this month's contest...(please be nice if you read them--it's a ROUGH draft) 
The older I got, and the closer to puberty, the more my father began to notice that I was putting on weight. I am not talking about huge amounts of weight by any means. I was a little plump for my age, yes, but it was certainly nothing major. The relative insignificance of my size was lost on my father, however, and from the time I was eight he berated me mercilessly for it. My food intake was monitored strictly at the dinner table every night as I was asked for a rundown of everything I had consumed that day. I lie in bed awake one night, at ten years old, listening to a phone conversation my father had with his mother. I stared up at my bedroom ceiling, tears streaming down my face as my father confided in my grandmother his shame at having such a fat, ugly daughter. This remains one of the most painful moments of my young life. Even still, all of this was tolerable. It was when he forced my mom to call my teacher at school and inform her I was not allowed to partake in any birthday or holiday treats in class that I was humiliated beyond all forgiveness. I still remember other kids coming to school with their big Tupperware containers full of pretty pink and blue cupcakes and watching them being handed out while I stared at my desk, my face getting redder by the second as tears threatened to burst forth from my welling eyes. No, this would not be something I would let go of easily. Eventually the other kids caught on to why I wasn't allowed the cupcakes and candy that they were and of course their catching wise led to endless ridicule at school as well.
There were many incidents as I was growing up revolving around my father's recurring childhood issues with cleanliness. When he was a boy, his father would rouse he and his brother out of bed to clean and scrub the house if grandpa felt it wasn't up to par. While cleaning, they would be smacked and whipped with belts until they were bloody. My father never hit me with anything when he would come home and find the house in a state he didn't approve of, but I certainly got a lashing. He had, at one time, redone the bathroom in the part of our house where my parent's and my brother's rooms were located. He replaced the flooring and the sink and painted and wallpapered and my mother made curtains...it was very nice. Upon its completion, I was informed that I was not to use it because I was too dirty to and I would ruin it and not appreciate it. He came home from somewhere one Saturday when I was home watching cartoons and went to use the bathroom. He came out demanding I get my ass in there and scrub the mildew from the bathtub caulking. I had no choice but to oblige. I sat in the bathtub with a sponge and bathroom cleaner for two hours attempting to remove the mildew. I scrubbed until my fingers were so burned from the cleaner that they were bleeding. Nothing would get out the stains and nothing could make him stop insulting me. My eyes stung from the fumes of ammonia and watered to the point where I couldn't tell if I was crying anymore or just reacting to the cleaner. I cannot tolerate the smell of ammonia to this day.
It DOES get happier, I think. I have to start somewhere.
The older I got, and the closer to puberty, the more my father began to notice that I was putting on weight. I am not talking about huge amounts of weight by any means. I was a little plump for my age, yes, but it was certainly nothing major. The relative insignificance of my size was lost on my father, however, and from the time I was eight he berated me mercilessly for it. My food intake was monitored strictly at the dinner table every night as I was asked for a rundown of everything I had consumed that day. I lie in bed awake one night, at ten years old, listening to a phone conversation my father had with his mother. I stared up at my bedroom ceiling, tears streaming down my face as my father confided in my grandmother his shame at having such a fat, ugly daughter. This remains one of the most painful moments of my young life. Even still, all of this was tolerable. It was when he forced my mom to call my teacher at school and inform her I was not allowed to partake in any birthday or holiday treats in class that I was humiliated beyond all forgiveness. I still remember other kids coming to school with their big Tupperware containers full of pretty pink and blue cupcakes and watching them being handed out while I stared at my desk, my face getting redder by the second as tears threatened to burst forth from my welling eyes. No, this would not be something I would let go of easily. Eventually the other kids caught on to why I wasn't allowed the cupcakes and candy that they were and of course their catching wise led to endless ridicule at school as well.
There were many incidents as I was growing up revolving around my father's recurring childhood issues with cleanliness. When he was a boy, his father would rouse he and his brother out of bed to clean and scrub the house if grandpa felt it wasn't up to par. While cleaning, they would be smacked and whipped with belts until they were bloody. My father never hit me with anything when he would come home and find the house in a state he didn't approve of, but I certainly got a lashing. He had, at one time, redone the bathroom in the part of our house where my parent's and my brother's rooms were located. He replaced the flooring and the sink and painted and wallpapered and my mother made curtains...it was very nice. Upon its completion, I was informed that I was not to use it because I was too dirty to and I would ruin it and not appreciate it. He came home from somewhere one Saturday when I was home watching cartoons and went to use the bathroom. He came out demanding I get my ass in there and scrub the mildew from the bathtub caulking. I had no choice but to oblige. I sat in the bathtub with a sponge and bathroom cleaner for two hours attempting to remove the mildew. I scrubbed until my fingers were so burned from the cleaner that they were bleeding. Nothing would get out the stains and nothing could make him stop insulting me. My eyes stung from the fumes of ammonia and watered to the point where I couldn't tell if I was crying anymore or just reacting to the cleaner. I cannot tolerate the smell of ammonia to this day.
It DOES get happier, I think. I have to start somewhere.
VIEW 8 of 8 COMMENTS
I want to hug you.