fromjunia

My care team doesn’t understand me. They pretend they do. But they offer sympathy, not compassion. Textbook dialogue and sterile warmth; there is no soul behind their surgical reassurance. I swear, I can see it in their eyes. They understand too little and say too much.

They place me in hell and call it health. Progress to them is that I suffer in new ways. That suffering is my problem, not theirs. I’m left miserable while they feel proud of what a good job they did in helping me return to the arms of my fears and pains.

Other disordered people get it. Not everything, and not all the time, but enough. I love them. They understand the safety that an eating disorder offers. They understand the pain of trying to separate from it. My clinicians? They learned from words. Words lie. They follow a shadow of a scientist’s interpretation of my situation. Disordered people actually know the reality.