Don’t tell me how well I’m doing; ask me how I am.

Don’t tell me how far I’ve come (I know that myself); ask me where I am now.

Don’t ask me how I’m fucking FEELING because I can’t even find my feelings. I don’t even have any. Real people have feelings but I’m not a real person. I’m a bunch of thoughts going around in a circle.

Don’t try to make me be fine. I’m clinging to my illness because at least I know what it is. I’m childishly resisting fine. I’m being unreasonable because being reasonable and strong and functional has worn me out. I don’t want you to push me over there before I’m ready. I’ve been pushed enough.