I'm fat and I hate everything and everything sucks and this is bullshit.

My dad is here, helping me move out.

This means I have to eat, and I don't get to eat nice little calorie-controlled perfectly portioned frozen meals and measured out servings of Boost and grapes.

It means I got to have a panic attack -- literally a panic attack -- over a tofu sandwich today.

Let me give you a second to let that sink in.

A tofu. Fucking. Sandwich.

I had to go to the bathroom and hyperventilate so he wouldn't see. I wanted to cry. I felt like a three year old. I wanted to throw things. It's ruined my entire day, that fucking tofu sandwich. I've been an emotional wreck since noon.

This is why people in 12-step programmes have sponsors. I wish I had someone that I could call and say, "I ate a tofu sandwich. I feel like shit. I feel like I gained a million pounds. When I look in the mirror all I see is fat now. I can't do this."

I really just wanted to put the damn thing down and run away.

And now we're about to go to dinner. I just, I seriously cannot do this. I have no idea how I'm going to.

He has no idea I'm struggling, my dad. No idea at all. If he knew I couldn't go to England. That's why I have to keep lying to him. Plus it would break his heart. I mean really.

I hate food. I hate my body. I'm on the verge of tears but I have to go pretend to enjoy myself at fucking dinner now.

If you pray, pray this gets better.