I am the sum of my defects, to lay them down is to die. Changing me by forcing me to get help is forcing me to becomesomeone else. You think you can help me, or should help me. Is my deficit that annoying? Will “fixing” me make you feel better? Realize that by fixing me, your tearing me apart. I know I’m sick, I’m ill, I’m addicted. I binge, purge, use, fixate, cut, obsess, worry, and rage. I listen to voices telling me you want to change me, to make me better. Really? I don’t see the life you live as better. I see that your scared to let your weaknesses show, to claim them as your own, to know and show that they are a part of you, like every part that is acceptable and healthy. I own my diseases, they are unique, changing and evolving. Predicting my behavior is impossible, unless you give me pills that make me think like you. Or give me programs teaching me to act proper. Or follow me around pushing away the naughty deprecating things that chase me. Let me off your leash of altruism and guilt induced change. My faults, I make them work for me. They become a unique discordant song that never ends. Listen to the off-key and dragging notes, they are a symphony. Dance to my music. You‘ll never be bored and perhaps you‘ll forget about trying to change me.
Opinions Of Eye 