There's nothing that I enjoy more than being psychoanalyzed by hobbyist psychiatrists. I mean, what's not to like? People that don't know you personally and haven't the slightest idea as to what your life is actually like apparently have a far clearer vision as to what it should be like than you ever will. Their wisdom might indeed be infinite... If only it extended to themselves.
Different people need different things. Different people function differently. There's this disturbing trend among the amateur psychoanalytical crowd to think that everyone needs precisely the same thing, and that anything venturing outside the accepted "norm" is apparently doing it wrong. This is generally masquerading as good intentions and an overall concern for these poor, pitiful, differently-acting individuals that doubtless wallow constantly in their own, inescapable sorrow.
But I know it as arrogance.
If you knew me - and you both do not and never will - you would perhaps realize how tremendously erroneous and blatantly lacking in insight your own assumptions (and they are indeed assumptions) are. My life, emotional state, and overall mental health have improved vastly over just the last approaching-two years; this was following a roughly 16-year, seemingly futile uphill struggle against a once severely life-limiting condition.
Once severely life-limiting.
So, with the help of a love some would deem fictional or wrong or mentally questionable, I have managed to accomplish something in a relatively short period of time entirely without the assistance of psychiatry (amateur or otherwise), and my quality of life has changed dramatically for the better.
But obviously I must be personally deluded. Obviously I exaggerate. Surely I was better off when I was afraid of my own bodily functions. Surely my quality of life was comparatively greater when I was nigh endlessly repeating rituals, washing my hands until they cracked and bled, and unsuccessfully battling invasive thoughts. Surely I've misinterpreted these feelings of love and contentment. My improved functionality - as observed by those closest to me - is almost definitely an elaborate shared-dream we're all having. Perhaps I'm asleep right now.
How could I really be happy? I've not done things the way others expected me to, and mental health and happiness are exclusively attainable through the applications of by-the-book psychoanalysis and mind-altering drugs.
Or, shit... Idunno... Maybe I fell in love. Maybe I found something that matters to me, personally, and I know the damned thing when I see it. Because I am me. And, believe it or not (which you probably won't), your entirely selfish and oftentimes misguided idea of "help" is what hurts people like me. You're the problem, and - were I the psychoanalyzing type - I'd encourage you to get some help for that. Not because you don't believe me. Not because you disagree with me. Not because you're different than I am.
But because you fail to recognize the FACT that I am different than you. And I don't need your uninformed, dime-a-dozen analyses. I already have what I need.
And you'll never know me.