The first round of therapy is officially a bust.
I’ve been going for fifty-minute sessions at the Wheaton counseling center once a week, usually on Wednesdays, ever since I typed up this outline of the issues. The counselor’s verdict: my repression is just one of those things that the brain does sometimes, and I shouldn’t worry about it.
This is kind of like hearing a disturbing noise from your car, taking it in to a mechanic, and being told that they don’t know what’s causing it, but you should keep driving anyway.
At least I picked up a few bits of information along the way.
