I don’t want to talk to people from the Charis Center any more.

They upset me. They tell me I’m going to die painfully… slowly… although they don’t know what I look like.

They just try to cookie cutter me into meal plans without taking into account sensibilities or my personal ideas and options.

They’re not helping. Rather, I’ve becoming more stressed and I don’t even see them. All of this is the telehealth BS. The more they push the less I want to do. The more I want to fight back and do what I want regardless if it is “good” for me or not.

They’re the “experts.” Right.
There are more experts on the planet right now than any time in human history and we still have the same problems if not amplified.

So screw them.

But…. I know I’m not right.
It’s fairly obvious….

I want to get better and, when it comes to eating disorders, they’re supposed to be the best in the state. Actually, they’re about the only ones who ‘specialize’ in them outside of private institutions that don’t accept Medicare. They have a monopoly and know it.

I guess they just get off playing mind games with sick people like me.

But how else can I get better?
I’ve done such a * stellar * job trying to pull myself out of this.

I’m too smart for my own good and too analytical. Far to cynical by far.

If I die… and I will one day… I’ll just prove them right.
Maybe I’ll be a waypoint or a reference to help them scare others.

Of course, I have * no intention * of dying. I have * no intention * of committing self harm… regardless of how many times they ask me. I swear I think some psychologists would be quite satisfied if I did. Then they could point at me and say “See, that’s what is supposed to happen!”

News flash… we all die.
It’s just a matter of when, where, how, and why.

But we all die.
It’s a habit that the living has developed over the years.

I don’t know if I want to keep putting myself through this. Further, I don’t know if I want to keep dragging Jason down with me.

It’s really apparent when they get under my apparently fat-free thin skin. I’m miserable which, I think, makes him a degree of miserable too. I know it would me since I’d be putting up with me.

I don’t know and I don’t get it. But I feel that I should.

But… in the mean time… I’m not getting better. I don’t think I am. I don’t feel that I am.

Mom says I’m strong-willed. I guess so.
But that doesn’t help and fluff words are just that… fluff. That doesn’t make anything any better.

If anything… it’s worse.
I should know better. I might know better. But I keep going down this path anyway.