Dr. Bloomfield considers himself quite intelligent and perceptive but I suspect he finds my long list of childhood traumas boring. He feels I’m not interesting enough for a case history in The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry. Which means he’s much less empathetic than he thinks he is.
Look at him. His shirt is drum-taut against his pregnant woman’s belly. The buttons would pop off if he sneezed. His tie is rumpled, as is his blue Oxford shirt with the button-down collar. I think his sloppiness is an affectation meant to disguise his self loathing. A pretense, as if he’s saying, I really don’t care how I look, I’ve got too many other more important things on my mind. I’ll bet in the morning he has trouble looking in the mirror at his flushed, sweaty, jowly face.
He doesn’t see the utter hypocrisy in setting himself up as a healer when he’s apparently done absolutely nothing about his own chronic eating disorder. It’s like a counselor at a rehab showing up for work drunk or high on drugs.
Nevertheless I’m supposed to trust this guy.
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