When I think back about the first great intervention in my life (I count my shock as the second), I’m ashamed to remember how long I tried to hold out. I first sought the conventional remedy for a man of my background and education (Brown ’39). One takes one’s child to see Fantasia, one dreams that night of the devil, one’s terror does not abate the next morning, not the next, nor the next. After two weeks of this, off one scurries to a psychiatrist. To whom one is induced to complain about one’s own childhood. One is talked around into trying to believe one had such and such feelings about one’s father and one’s mother: the so called family romance. (Oh yes, I know the jargon.) It is pointed out to one that the word abate is in itself a not insignificant choice. The terror still does not abate.
An excerpt of fiction from the short story The Mail Lady by David Gates.
Artwork: Noaz by Michael R. Buhler