I’m on my third therapist, actually. The first one I went to back in Washington when I was going through all of that chronic pain crap. He told me I was “too normal” for him. This, of course, was before Abby was born and WAY before I stopped caring what people thought. The second one I made cry in less than fifteen minutes. I’d LOVE to say it was because I’m so freaking awesome that I could break someone so fast, but it was just because she too has a child with autism. All she could do was sit there and say, “Autism is SO hard!” I don’t need that. Anyone could tell me that.
This one I told her that I needed someone who would tell me to “Nut up and get on with life…” and even that didn’t make her look at me funny.
But then the last time, she kept looking at me like I was crazy. I thought I was doing something right (I’m going to need another damn therapist to tell me why I get such a kick out of trying to get this therapist to think I’m nuts. It’s not ALL therapists. Just this one. I just wanted to mess with her the entire time I was there! Perfect use of my time and money, yes?). She kept looking down at my shirt. I wrote it off as her just looking at the large stain I had left on my shirt from eating my Cafe Rio salad on the way to the appointment. Or maybe, for once, someone was looking at my boobs. I didn’t even care that it was a chick! They haven’t been appreciated in like a decade. The appointment dragged on and on for what seemed like four years. Not helpful. She kept trying to tell me that the reason I’m “okay” with my kids’ diagnoses (is that right? Apostrophes are HARD) is because I haven’t fully come to terms with them.
Uh duh? Of course I haven’t. Casey was diagnosed close to 7 years ago. SEVEN. His autism changes all of the time. How can I come to terms with something that is so variable? And how can I come to terms with what are now the “inevitabilities” with Down syndrome when they, too, will change? If I had been born with Down syndrome, my life expectancy would have been into my twenties. Abby’s life expectancy is more than double that. Think of the advances that will be made in her (and Casey’s) lifetimes? Just because I don’t sit around crying that Abby might get Alzheimer’s before I do doesn’t mean I NEED TO. We just don’t know.
After the appointment I had to pee something fierce. So I ran to the bathroom and when I was washing my hands I noticed
what looked like a very large PUBIC HAIR right on my white shirt. I brushed it off as if it were a spider while doing the same kind of grossed out jig. It was before I could REALLY look at it. It looked like a pube. I’m pretty sure it was just a broken piece of my hair- but there’s no way of knowing. I know what it looked like. And that’s what counts.
And I now know that my therapist wasn’t looking at my bosom. That saddens me.
So I created a meme to share with you that helps me to sleep at night.
Probably not one of mass appeal, but it works, dammit.
(I don’t get the Ryan Gosling trend though. I’m not comfortable with a dude being skinnier or prettier or better dressed than I am).
Check out my friends’ memes. Ryan Gosling does Special Needs! http://www.extremeparenthood.com/