For Telling The Truth Even When It Hurts Me Poem by Megan Maughan

Last Sunday during the weekly phone call from my mother, her greeting doesn't ask me how I've been or even what state I'm currently in. Instead she asks, so how much weight have you lost?
As if I wasn't insecure enough about where I stand in her affections, being the seventh of her ten children, now I know my only value to her will be in the number of compliments she will get about me from her church friends.
I didn't eat anything for the rest of the day as her shame worked its way through my digestive system. The shame tastes like binging on Fritos and cheese dip until I have vomit so I associate the two tastes and never want to taste them again.
The shame tastes like 2: 00 a.m. hugging the toilet to rid my body of the peppermint I ate because it's sugar content was too high. It tastes like failure.