I secretly loathed the first time I had my breakthrough with my therapist. At least that is the terminology they , the professionals chose to use. " breakthrough". I remember thinking if the mind was ready to remember things, it would do it on it's own. It did not need any tricks , or training.But after all they were the big thinkers, they were the ones that knew what they were doing. They said it was the repression causing my life such hell. I never believed that even for a moment. My therapist refered to my brain as the attic. An attic with a front door and a back door. She said all I needed to do was unlock that front door, go inside and explore, and then exit out the back door. So simple it was stupid. I tried to explain that my front door was locked. And the key was long gone. That the key had not been in my posession for many many years. She asured me that she had a spare key. That statement amused me. How could she possibly have a spare key to my brain I protested, along side of my cocky laugh. It really did not matter I knew she was determined to get inside my head. And that is exactly what she did. She unlocked the front door, and went inside. Not without putting me into a drug induced fog. When the session was over and I came out of my drug induced , auto pilot state. I grinned and asked her if she found anything of value in there. Did she enjoy exploring behind the door, was there cobwebs littering the space. Had she had found anything worth booking yet another hour long appointment for the following week. Her skin usually bright with a healthy shine, turned into the color of a piece of old crusty grey molded bread. Small beads of sweat broke out out across the top of forehead. She knew, she knew it all. I fought hard to keep a quirky grin from taking form on my face. I never agreed to these sessions in the first place I told myself. It was the courts that insisted I go through with this.