Grated Cheese

No, I'm not going to make some esoteric comparison between grated cheese and some aspect of disability. This is simply a story about grated cheese. To demonstrate that my stressed-out state heads more in the direction of depression than anxiety, I told my psychiatrist (not FabTherapist) about the following event: Getting ready to make an omelet, I went to the refrigerator to fetch the sautéed vegetables I had, the already grated cheddar and other useful ingredients. The Ziploc bag of cheese was not where I'd left it. It wasn't next to where I had left it. It wasn't anywhere that I looked. So, I sat down on the floor before the open fridge and sobbed. Inconsolably. My psychiatrist said, "Well, that's about your disability..." Um, until that very moment, I hadn't thought about it in those terms. I was just a person who couldn't find something and had a very intense, dramatic response. Blindness had nothing to do with it. The thought, "If I could see, I could find the stupid cheese," never crossed my mind. The psychiatrist, though, went there immediately. I find that fascinating.