Well, *that* went well.

I'm writing this from Gate 1, Delta Terminal, Laguardia airport, New York City.

I woke up at 3:30am, half an hour before the alarm. I'm crazy like that.

My flight isn't until 10:45, but Maggie and the kids decided to go to visit her Dad in West Palm Beach... and their flight was at 8:00am. So off we went, super early.

While waiting in the van, my daughter slugged my youngest in the head. I sent her inside, checked on the boy, stormed inside, and yelled at my daughter "GET IN THE KITCHEN!" Apparently, this scared the crap out of Maggie, because she yelped. I angrily told my daughter that she could not hit, and that this was totally unacceptable. Maggie was really upset that I yelled at our daughter like that. On the way to the airport, she said that she wants me to talk to someone about my temper. Ugh.

She may be right, though. Although not in the way that she's saying.

I think it might be good for me to see a shrink. I think that as I turn... um... "40"... that it's wtime to come to terms with my beloved-but-fucking-insane father, and the long-term effects of my prior difficulties with with alcohol.

This bothers me, though. And I know why.

Being raised in a "black/white" environment, where I was either "God's gift to the planet," or someone who "didn't deserve to steal oxygen from others," I think the idea of going to therapy to try and improve on things that are relatively normal is an entirely fucked-up concept. Does this make sense?

In other words: in my brain, having any issue = complete mental ruin.

Love to all. Someone I know just arrived.