All These Stories Don’t Mean Anything

My counselor likes to point out occasionally that I am “stuck” somewhere in middle school.  She also likes to point out that I occasionally like to act like a whiny teenager in our sessions and she has to parent me at these times.  Because, apparently, my parents “missed” me in some rather dramatic ways and until I can admit that and grieve that and place blame where it rightly belongs (instead of committing myself to forever believing that I’m a screw-up and everyone else is perfect), I will remain “stuck”.

So I’m supposed to be working on “my story” this week.

But that would require actually dealing with my feelings, and instead, I’d rather whine and complain and make my counseling sound like one big ridiculous joke. 

Working on my story would perhaps involve actually crying the tears I’ve been fighting back for over a week and admitting the truth:

That I am deeply, horribly hurt and lonely and unhappy.  And I would rather kill myself slowly with an eating disorder than have to sit with that feeling for any length of time.

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