I hear them yelling downstairs. It's always the same, each one trying to keep below the screaming level. It's always too loud in this house.

My sister usually ends up crying and locking herself in the bathroom. My mother sits alone on a stool in the kitchen, silent.

They are far above the screaming volume. My sisters half way between sobbing and shrieking. So many factors lead to her distress. The triggering effect, the eating. It's all so complicated.

My mother is attempting to feed logic and sense into her head. It never works.

I'm always in my room by this stage of the fight. The stage where all that's left is pure anger and rage.

The confessions come spilling from my sisters mouth. Salads with no dressing for months. Brown rice and quinoa and soy milk and...my mother just gets angrier.

I'm used to this. I shouldn't be used to this. I don't think this is normal in most families.

The conflicts in this house never end, they never resolve. There's no distinct winner or loser. No apologies or smiles. It just drags on, almost invisible, but always there.

My mother and sister are the permanent characters, though it's never clear who is the villain or victim. Maybe the stress and eating are the actual enemy.

I'm always somewhere no one knows about. You'd think I'd like it that way. But I'm always brought up only as a comparison, a model. It's not really fair.

I have problems, too. I hurt, too. Believe it or not, I actually have a heart and emotions and feelings.

No one really knows though. Its because I'm a good actor, a good hider. Or maybe I'm just unresponsive.

I think that if they just looked a little harder, though, they'd realize. They'd realize my hurt and suffering and grief.

And that's what angers me.