The mind is its own place

Is it just me that comes home from the therapist feeling more crazy than before, not less? (Yesterday: probably my fourth therapist visit ever over the last 43 years of my existence.)

I get caught up in my desire to know what does she think of what I'm saying?  And what does she think of me?
Why?  Why does it matter what the therapist thinks of me?  I'm not renting her out as a friend.  I don't worry about what my physician thinks of me (or not much), but at the therapist I feel like she must be judging me, or she should be judging me and why won't she deliver the verdict, dammit?

Anyway, 90 minutes of that, a late school pick up which involved retrieving a tired boy (and me interpreting, narcissistically, his tiredness as evidence of his being traumatised by his crappy ass mother) and then also retrieving an overtired/ overexcited girl fresh from gymnastics, and then a protracted bedtime which involved both children working it for extra snuggles (and me, guilt-ravaged, easily falling prey) and:
it's no surprise that I left my alarm clock at the house
packed the wrong clothes for work today
and arrived here in such a black mood that goths themselves would have been impressed.

Post title is of course a reference to Milton's Paradise Lost:
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven

I know brainwashing has terrible pejorative connotations, but today would be a great day for a good thorough spring cleaning so that I can see out of my own head more clearly.

It's important, cause under current (trapped in own head) conditions, I nearly miss the brilliance of such observations as Clara's last night.  Of the soup pouring off her spoon into her bowl she said "Look! It's a waterfall for ants."