I hate feeling like I have 6883435478505 things wrong with me. Still. Yet.

I hate being asked to document (read: admit in writing) that my perceptions are so profoundly twisted that I wouldn't know the truth of life, of people, if it came up and bit me. I don't believe that, I don't want to believe that, and I resent the **** out of it being implied, even.

Most of all I hate the fact that two weeks ago, I could really understand what she was saying about distortions, calmly, intelligently, without defense getting in the way, and now am back on defense big time & she is speaking an alien tongue to me. I'm certain that her words have not changed; the defect is in me.

I hate it.

sorry