Therapy

Obviously, when you leave the asylum (I will go back to more about that tomorrow), you are supposed to continue with therapy to continue working on whatever issues brought you to that point.

It is going to be hard to believe, but even as a counselor, I was very reluctant to see a counselor. I guess I figure that my situation is what it is. A counselor is not going to give me back my leg or make my lungs function any better. So what's the point? Plus, I'm sick of appointments, of worrying about doing this or that to make myself healthy - physically or emotionally.

I see such a need in the pediatric oncology world for each and every clinic to have a long-term follow up center. As of right now, this is not the case. What that means for me, is that I have to coordinate all of my "ologists" on my own: my family doc, my infectious disease doc, my cardiologist, my pulmonologist, my gynocologist, physical medicine specialist, psychologist, psychiatrist...you get the idea. It is overwhelming and tiring. 

I called my cardiologist just this week, to ask a question about my medication. Well, he sees like a gazillion patients because he is "the best," and I was on hold forever, transfered to a nurse who said they transfered me to the wrong place, more hold time, then a nurse who said she would catch up with the doctor and call me back. Still no call. Eventually, you just say, "screw it." 

So, this is my background in reference to counseling/therapy. Today, I met with a new therapist. I asked in my prayers for someone to help me, to guide me in the direction I need to go. Today I found that person in a small, comfortable office. I will describe some of my visit in another post, but I wanted to share that I learned an amazing thing about myself today: I have really never grieved the loss of my leg. I have never been angry, really angry about my limitations, and now, after all of these years, it is beginning to seep out...in the form of depression and anxiousness and outbursts - such as the "fucking soda" episode at the asylum.

It is relieving, in one way, to know I have someone who I can trust to work through this. But I'm scared, too. I don't want to think about this. I don't know if I want to face all the stuff I've probably shoved down. 

Yet I know I have to. I know I have to face it or I will be angry at other people. I will be angry with myself. I will end up back in the asylum. I know it because I've had days since that I feel myself slipping again, and I don't have the energy to keep this up. Plus, I deserve better. My son deserves better, and I want him to know how to ask for help. 

So here I go....jumping off a cliff into the unknown. Luckily, I have the faith to know there's one of those big cushion things at the bottom - there just has to be.