Conclusion of Lectures (Part2)
It was not long before my father, the psychoanalyst, would take me into the garage simply to throw a bolt at me. He would keep, nearby, a lined notebook. In this book he would make notes on my reaction to getting hit by the bolt. This occurred more frequently as the days and months went by.
One day my mother found the notebook and read it.
When my father got home from the university she confronted him about it. I should be quick to say that it was really not a confrontation but more of a confab. Mother and Father discussed the notebook in hushed tones. She had folded the corners of some pages and turned to those as they spoke.
It must have been an emotionally exhausting effort because they claimed that they were tired and were going upstairs to take a nap.
Dad’s mother fixed me a…
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