.....Okay, I've inhaled a six-pack in the last two hours and what did it help? I'm just now getting over another cycle of uncontrollable rage, depression, loneliness, and tears. I'm really fed up with this. Why do I feel so bad?

I remember my childhood and it hurts.

I remember always being out of place in school (too young, too smart, too Asian, and so very lonely). Racism was alive and well in New England during the 1960's. And the discrimination in the Southern Florida of the early 1970's was worse. I was either ridiculed for my slanted eyes, or brown skin; or simply ignored, "invisible" - grey in a "black and white" world.

And I was fat. Not just chubby or baby-fat cute, I was fat.

I blamed my parents.

In Asia, a fat child was a status symbol, a testimony to the assumed wealth of his parents, and looked upon favorably by all. But in the United States, fat children are stereotyped as being lazy, cowardly, comical, and/or stupid.

My parents just didn't get it. They acted like they didn't care that I was ridiculed daily. I can't count how many times I cried over being - as my mother would say - "husky." In fact, I can still remember dreading each new season of shopping for school clothes. I had to buy "husky" sizes. I was so ashamed that I would keep looking around the store to see if any of my friends were around before I went to the dressing rooms.

It wasn't until I was nine or ten years old that I rebelled. I refused to eat whatever my parents made for dinner, choosing to prepare my own meals.

Of course, this led to a life-long battle over food choices with my parents. I'm sure I hurt their feelings many times. But I just couldn't stand being the brunt of all the fat jokes at school and other social situations.

Then I discovered sports and fitness. I played tennis for 5-6 hours a day during my summer break. When I went back to school, half of my friends didn't recognize me! I literally went from the nice, funny, fat kid to the kid that the girls in school would fawn over.

The girls, oh the girls! I'd never gotten so much attention before. They would sprint down alternate hallways or "accidentally" drop their books near me just to talk to me. It was quite a big change to get used to.

Then another neat thing happened. The years I spent learning on my own paid off. I was placed in the smart kid's "Gifted Programs."

Funny story. One day, after I got in trouble for the umpteenth time in school, my father told me I was going to a "special class" to meet my "special" needs. I thought I was going to the class for dumb kids. When I showed up for the Gifted Programs class, I was sure it was for stupid kids. Most of the kids looked like geeks or retards. It wasn't until the teacher approached me and explained the situation that I realized that all those weird-looking kids were brainiacs.

So there I was, popular with the girls, a jock, and a geek. Perversely, I decided to complete my repertoire of roles and characters and befriended a lot of acid rock, pothead friends. Surprisingly, no one batted an eye as I hung out with one group one week; then socialized with a totally different group during the next.

Sports, especially individual sports made me happy. I liked the idea of winning or losing by my own hand. I didn't like to play sports where the outcome relied too much on other people.

My prowess on the tennis court resulted in a lot of praise. I skipped the novice stage, going from beginner to tournament player in less than 8 months - all without the aid of lessons. I was self taught. Like everything else I considered important in my life (i.e., languages, art, science, psychology, relationships, etc.), I learned better and faster by teaching myself.

Soon I had garnered some sponsorship from a couple of local and national tennis stores. They would give me free tennis rackets, shoes, and clothes - as long as I kept my USTA (United States Tennis Association) State rankings high enough.

That year, I call it my "tennis year," I just knew that my family would get me something related to my new-found athletic passion for Christmas. On Christmas day, I eagerly opened each Christmas gift.

But with each present, I realized that my parents didn't have a clue what made me happy. I got clothes. I got socks. I got underwear. I got school supplies. Everything I got from my parents was totally unrelated to anything that I remotely liked, especially tennis.

My heart sank lower and lower as I reached the end of the small pile of Christmas gifts. The last gift I unwrapped was from my older sister. We had always been close. And after this Christmas we would be much closer.

The rectangular box looked like all the rest of the boxes containing a shirt or pants. I didn't open it with any enthusiasm. But then I saw what was inside. Framed behind a plastic front cover was a set of wrist bands and a headband, the kind I wore to keep sweat from my tennis racket grip and eyes when I played tennis. That's when I felt like my sister was the only person in my family (and the world) that loved me enough to know what I was all about.

A rush of bad feelings overwhelmed me. I spent the rest of the day hidden in the guest room's closet because I didn't want anyone to see me convulsing with waves of uncontrollable tears.

I hated Christmas time for the next 21 years. It wasn't until my second marriage that I learned to feel good about Christmas. My second wife went all out during the holiday season (e.g., Christmas lights on the house, baking cookies, dinner parties, Santa Claus photos for the kids, etc.). Her infectious joy during Christmas and New Year's slowly taught me how to enjoy a little of the festive cheer.

(Finished in Part III)

Carl "J.C." Pantejo Pantejo@ynvurcepublishing.com

About the Author

He is a retired U.S. Military veteran. Believing that school was too boring, he dropped out of High School early; only to earn an A.A., B.S., and MBA in less than 4 years much later in life - while working full-time as a Navy/Marine Corps Medic. In spite of a fear of heights and deep water, he free-fall parachuted out of airplanes and performed diving ops in very deep, open ocean water. Pantejo@ynvurcepublishing.com http://www.ynvurcepublishing.com