“But I always thought,” said I, “that repressed memories had something to do with childhood.”
I was there. It felt warm and comfortable and safe.
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“You must trust me,” the Voice of Therapy Excellence commanded. “Together we will search your subconscious, uncover your unconscious, penetrate your psyche, mesmerize your memory, investigate your id, and explore your hidden wounds. A simple baseball team cannot be the cause of this depression.”
“No, my son. I sense something much more severe is troubling you. Let us go back, back, back to the beginning. Look carefully. Can you see someone? A shadowy figure perhaps?”
“A politician? I trusted a politician?”
My therapist gave a deep sigh and rattled his papers. “You say baseball bat, but you see something else.”
I tried counting backward again. Maybe that would help me see what I was supposed to see. 100, 99, 98 . . .
