I was in therapy for most of my life; I stopped for ten years or so after I got married to Maria.

As I got older, I signed up with my therapist Peggy again. I felt more vulnerable and anxious and thought aging might require a trained professional to speak with. I accept that I suffer from generalized anxiety, a recognized mental illness.

I need to keep up with it.

I learned to trust Peggy and never lie to her. I was handsomely rewarded for this; she helped me get my life back and to be healthy enough to love someone like Maria. And I learned how to find out the truth about myself and own up to it.

I wasn’t expecting the toe amputation to be a psychological issue, but it was.

There was the obvious – nobody wants to lose a toe – and the not-so-obvious. I found myself oddly angry at how people started dealing with and responding to me.

I call it the “soft face,” which many older people recognize immediately. It makes me wince inside.

People tilt their heads or speak softly and with great concern and pity when they hear about my toe. People would approach me on the street, tilt their heads and say, “Jon,  how are you?” as if I were days from death. They seemed so sorry for me.

But I wasn’t sorry for me.

Nobody asked me about anything else.

There is nothing especially infuriating about this behavior, although I often found it patronizing. My life is not all about my health or surgery; it is about many things, many good and happy.

My life is very good and full, and I love every day of it.

When one is mentally ill, one of the first things you learn is that there are triggers in life, things that may make no sense to the outside world but which can trigger one into relapse and lapses. The dark places never go away; they are sometimes pushed aside and dormant.

You never really know what will wake them up.

My toe amputation was undoubtedly a trigger.

I hate being pitied, but I also hate turning my anger onto well-meaning people, unarmed civilians, in my personal struggle with life.

Still, this happened so often it made me angry.

I am glad Peggy is talking to me again, therapy has saved and shaped my life in so many ways, and she knows me perhaps even better than Maria – she has seen me at my absolute worse and most vulnerable.

When I explained this to her, she said I was angry because I refused to be negative or pessimistic about my life.

Peggy has seen me through some extremely dark times but said she has never seen or heard me speak poorly or negatively about my life.

She said it was one of my most powerful characteristics.

She said I was angry because I thought people were speaking negatively about my life when I didn’t feel negative about it. I have never spoken negatively about my life in all of our years talking together.

Justly or not, it feels that almost everyone around me speaks poorly of their life all the time. America has had it good for so long, I suspect, that people have a hard time accepting the realities of life.

This was a revelation to me. I don’t need to be angry at anyone; it doesn’t do any good and isn’t incredibly healthy. I understand why it helps. I remember the two days I decided never to speak poorly of my life or be negative about it.

The first was when I was eleven, and my father hit me on the head with a fastball. He was trying to teach me to catch me and called me a sissy after I fell to the ground and cried.

I remember thinking I would not accept anyone else’s view of me, not even my father. I remember thinking I would never allow anyone to make me feel bad about myself again.

The second was my memorable time traveling with the late Rev. Billy Graham. I was a journalist writing about him, and we both got very fond of one another; I traveled around with him in his limousine for weeks as he went out to his revival meetings.

I complained about the gas prices we saw as we drove around, and he told his driver to pull over; and we got out, he chewed me out and gave me a lecture I remember, which changed my life.

“Never speak poorly of your life,” he said,  “it might be listening. Prices, taxes, and grocery costs will always be going up, and if you are pessimistic about your life, you will grow up to be a nasty and angry old man.”

For some reason, this struck home like a drone missile. His words went right to my heart and soul. I don’t want to be a nasty older man, and I don’t want people pitying me or turning my life into a tragedy.

Watching the world around me from our beautiful little farm, I hear little but lament, complaint, grievance, and whining, even from our so-called leaders, especially our so-called leaders.

I decided not to be one of those people when I was eleven, and I don’t want to be one of those people now.

Being angry at people expressing concern about me does not seem healthy.

One of the striking things about working with refugee children like Folasade is that even though they have been through the most tragic and complex troubles in their lives, they are always grateful for what they have, never bitter or complaining about what they have lost.

I wish I could say that about the native-born Americans I know, young and old.

Somehow, this became my philosophy, narrative, and default position over the years.

I no longer have to work at it; it is an ingrained part of me.

Whatever happens to me, what every bridge I have to cross, I refuse to be pessimistic about my life, just like Peggie says. Pain and sickness, and challenges are a part of life. I refuse to turn life into a crisis. I accept life and meet it is up and downs face to face. Some good comes from everything.

I refuse to complain about my life or feel pity, and it’s a pity that makes me so angry. Anger is a disease and sickness of its own, that’s my problem, and I am working hard to deal with it.

Everything that happens to me in life teaches me something; life itself is the most outstanding teacher I know of. My attitude has more to do with my health than any flock of doctors.

Episodes like my open heart surgery and toe amputation bring this issue out in me. I hear the “soft voice” all the time, and it upsets and angers me. So I withdraw. I feel that the real me is no longer visible or relevant; the real me is not about my health but my life.

People rarely want to ask me about that, especially when I’m “sick.” Aren’t I as interesting as my toe?

I was so troubled by how people saw me – real or not – that I cut off contact with the outside world in the days before and after the surgery and spoke with no one but Maria and my friend Sue Silverstein.

She never uses a soft voice with me.

I understand this issue puts me between a rock and a hard place. Anger is never a viable solution. Anger never works. I think I was hiding to protect people from it. I think I was hiding to protect myself from it.

Peggy and I have agreed to take on this issue together, and I also talk to Maria about it all the time. I have no shame in acknowledging my problems and flaws. The only shame comes from refusing to deal with them.

Peggy was right about one thing for sure. I will never be negative about my life, speak poorly, or pity myself for living it.

It might be listening.