I love you, but you don’t get it.

Yesterday my sister came over for dinner. I mentioned the bullet journal I have to track my brain. We had the following conversation.

Me: yeah, so this is nice because I can just hand this to <therapist> and not have to try and remember everything.

Her: I used to write things down too. I only have to go to therapy once a month. I’m getting better. Maybe I won’t have to go at all soon. (She has anxiety. I think. I don’t actually know, she’s never told me).

Me: I’m jealous. I’ll probably never get to that point. I go every week.

Her: At least <therapist> is nice!

And then she changed the subject.

I love you sister, but this isn’t about you. And quit dismissing my struggles. You have no idea.

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