Growing up, I always knew three things:
- Wearing a gray shirt washed me out (I would proclaim this as a “fashion conscious” and unapologetically precocious 7 year old)
- We had to go to church on Sunday.
- My father was a good man.
Those were mainstays in my life. How those things morphed into a life threatening case of anorexia is beyond me, but that’s not what this post is about.
Growing up in the suburbs of Ohio in the nineties, things were pretty…normal. (Well, aside from a professional acting career.) But I played in the woods, listened to Hanson, had sleepovers, and never had anything to worry or be afraid of.
Every night, when my dad would come home from work, we would always play this game: I would always hide underneath the kitchen table, and he’d pretend to not know where I was. And then I’d pop out and he’d be…
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