Choices

Tonight I took the frozen chocolate chip cookie that Helen had packed for me before we got in her car for the trip back to my bus in Portland after the reunion. I never imagined eating it because I knew I'd never eat another cookie after gorging on brownies in my anxiety over the dinner the night before.

But tonight I needed the cookie. Today I went for a consultation with a psychiatrist. I gave up on therapy when I was sixty, deciding that enough was enough. But it's clearly time to start again because I have been sick and tired of myself for the last five years. I still work hard writing and washing water buckets, walk the dogs, take photographs and write a blog, but it's myself that I'm sick and tired of, not what I do.

I thought I had a cogent explanation of what I'd like to accomplish in this next go-round -- maybe I have ten years left (knowing it could be longer, could be less, could be whatever), knowing that I'm possessed by a wretched unconscious that provides horrendous dreams when I've managed to get by it's tentacles, and wanting to learn how to make decisions. The decision part is imperative because generally I've rolled with the punches. 

On of the difficulties of growing up in a lot of chaos, and then proceeding to create much more for yourself and your child, is that you tend to fall into situations rather than think about, believe in, choices. 

This therapist said that most people consult a therapist the way they consult a doctor -- because something specific is wrong. I'm just tired of myself.

I have another appointment. I'm glad.