YKnow what I mean

[I didn't write in response to a specific prompt] (Content warning: this blog is about an eating disorder. If you're not ready for something emotionally intense, don't read.)  “Why are you so short?" My extended family would probe. I hate that question. “What happened?”. My parents are on the shorter side, but they are both taller than me–and so are everyone else in our family, including my younger cousins. Everyone knew something must have happened. But no one, except me and my parents, knows what exactly happened in those haunting 10-12 months that (probably) led to my unusually short height. Even now, years after the “incident”, we avoid talking about it like the plague. It was mid-6th grade. I would call myself a little chubby but not in any way that would concern my health and make any weight-loss efforts necessary. But to that naive kid whose friends’ words probably had as much impact as those of a doctor, the comment “Why are you so fat?” had the weight of a dea...

What hobbies have been passed down from your family?  When I was six, I noticed my dad crouching over a patch of grass. Was he smoking? No, because he didn’t move away like he would when I approached him mid-smoke. I looked at his hand: a four-leaved clover. Peering at the green patch, I saw tons of clovers–most of them three-leaved–and realized he was searching for the special lucky charms. Before I knew it, I was squatting next to him, passionately partaking in the impromptu scavenger hunt. Soon after, it became a tradition of me and my dad to hunt for four-leaved clover (FLC) every weekend. Together, we ventured through every corner of the green space in our apartment complex like partners on a mission. I loved spending time with Dad. My entire life, his presence had meant stability and calm–he reassured me and stayed with me whenever I was terrified; he did everything patiently and methodically; he never scolded, but spoke from genuine love. Picking clovers next to him, I felt ...