“Tell me, John,” still another shrink asked me, “When was the last time your father abused you?”
I had to tell him it was twenty, thirty years ago. And he shook his head slowly and said, “Holy cow. The way you carry on, it was only yesterday.”
Good point. My childhood by then was ancient history, and as a grown man I should have gotten over it. But I hadn’t. Those memories continued to pursue me like a pack of wild, starving dogs. I kept running, they kept chasing.