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I've been home in San Francisco for exactly 2.5 days.  I've been in Napa with my parents and my sister for less than a full day.  I'm already locking myself in my room and crying.

Not because they're torturing me (at least not on purpose), but because being here with my mom and my sister, and sometimes even my dad, is just a constant reminder of how I'm too fat, and too disgusting, and worst of all too complacent.

I spend much of my time, when I'm in London with my boyfriend, trying to come to terms with my body at the weight where it levels out.  I try to eat healthily and be active, but not diet or follow an exercise regime, and then accept the weight and size where my body seems comfortable.  It doesn't always work, but it feels like I'm at least trying to break out of my cage of fucked-up body issues.

Then I come home.  And I'm surrounded by talk of 'points' and boxes of weight-watchers-approved snacks.  And my mom and sister spend every day exercising together and talking about diets and sizes and weight.  And I try to ignore it, but it worms under my skin like a chigger, laying eggs and then dying and festering until I itch so much that I end up scratching until I bleed.

And I try to accept things as they are, and I stop fighting, and I agree to go on a long walk with them along the highway in Napa.  And I dig through the clothes I store up here for something I can exercise in.  And I find a pair of shorts from college that don't fit.  And I find another pair that do, sort of.  And I tell myself that I don't really look as hideous as I think. 

And my mom and my sister avoid the question of whether I look hideous, and tell me that it doesn't matter what I look like.  And I try to explain.  And they don't listen.  And they don't understand.

And I lock myself in my room and cry like the 15 year old fatty that I still am.

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