Saw a psychiatrist twice in October, I think. She listened for 45 minutes each time, largely without saying a word, then summarized that she'd like to see me twice a week to talk about my "so called eating disorder" (her air quotes, not mine), and gave me a superbill for $600 with the wrong ICD-9 codes on it that my insurance rejected. So yeah. Paid $600 to be mocked by a mental health professional for 90 minutes. It was rad.

I realized the other day that the fifteen years I spent hating my parents for their abandonment of me was entirely due to another psychiatrist (girlfriend's father) who observed that children aren't born independent, they're born wanting to be held and my stern and unforgiving individualism was learned behavior. On the one hand, great. It's not my fault. On the other hand, thanks for kicking the shit out of my rationalization mechanism and leaving me with fucking nothing, asshole. I got to build that up on my own over a decade and a half.

So really. Fuck all mental health professionals, everywhere, in all time zones, on all astral planes, because the only thing they've ever done for me is say "you're doing it wrong."