Sausage, anyone?

I saw my therapist, G., for the first time last week. (Note that she is now "my" therapist. I realize that it's about 30 years too late for that to sound like a cool fashion accessory, something those hip New Yorkers could get behind, but gimme a break -- I live in the Midwest.) As self-predicted, I cried within about 90 seconds of sitting down on the couch. But I didn't bawl. It was fairly self-composed crying, a kind of gentle weeping that went on far too long in the silence of that office. Then I rallied and proceeded to tell her what a lousy life I have. (Kidding!)

I filled out some forms with family and medical background, the former of which raised a lot of questions. (I grew up in a -- let's say -- challenging environment.) So at our second session we discussed that. I dreaded it, having avoided talking about that stuff to a professional for so long, and the principals (Mom & Dad) are now dead, and it'll only make me sad, so what's the use?

But truthfully, it was a relief. Though not wanting to lay the cause of my various neuroses at my parents' doorstep, I have to admit that some aspects of my personality were forged in the oven of their bitter, unhappy, alcohol-filled lives. Not necessarily pleasant aspects, at that. Dealing with Henry's autism has brought some of that to the surface, namely self-doubt and a sense of floundering -- not knowing whether I am a competent parent, or whether I can ever be one given my background, etc.

G. said, "Every parent of a kid with disabilities feels they are floundering at one time or another." It brought me up short. Of course I know that intellectually, but emotionally I feel isolated and uncertain.

The thing is, being sad, confused, uncertain, anxious, etc. all comes out as anger in me. I'm not sad, I'm pissed! I'm not anxious, I'm pissed! I'm not confused, I'm pissed! Like I told a friend, it's like I'm making sausage: anger sausage.

And because Henry needs and deserves more patience and more understanding from me, and because I can't give it while I'm walking around feeling pissed off, I have to get a handle on what's going on with me. And I need it for my own peace of mind, and for the sake of Jon and my friends and family who have to put up with my temper.

G. also gave me a couple "quizzes" designed to reveal both how depressed I am, and how anxious I am. And I was moderate on both.

That's me -- always doing things half-assed.