progress is another day

the man on my computer asks about my habits. I hate to tell the truth, knowing the picture it paints and that some people have real problems. he tells me what I need, knowing how far he's reaching from my triangle of wants and where I am. we both know he's right and I need to listen through the screams in subtext. what did I think this would look like? his patience makes a child of my disorder: at least I'm showing up. progress is another day in the same shoes.