SHANE. “Yes, as a matter of fact, he was a Marine,” I answered in response to the doctor’s question regarding my father’s military background.

“Well, the human mind is difficult to understand. We all deal with stress, memories, and the repression of memories differently. Our mind often, as a survival skill of sorts, places memories on a back shelf. Over time, we forget they even exist. In our conscious mind they aren’t a memory. Like a deleted movie scene, if that makes sense,” the doctor paused and tapped his pen on the desk.

“Look at it this way. You have a favorite movie. It resembles many other movies by the same director with the same cast. You watch it one time, just once. You recall a fondness for the movie a few years later, and decide to watch it again. You place the DVD in the player, but there’s something different. One short movie scene has been deleted – completely eliminated. And you rewind the movie and watch it again - but the scene is gone. You begin to wonder if it was ever there at all. You rewind the movie again, and watch it entirely. Nothing. You’re now convinced the scene was never there at all. Over years of recollections regarding the movie, your new memory never includes the deleted scene,” he stopped tapping his pen and smiled, convinced he made his point about repressed memories.

“I suspect this,” he continued as he touched his finger to his lip, obviously thinking.

“I suspect the small chest or foot locker at your girlfriend’s house had something in it which reminded you of your fathers military foot locker. Probably an odor,” he paused again and looked at me as if waiting for an answer.

“Well, it smelled really strong when she opened it. Kind of musty,” I recalled.

“And you said earlier you used to cover your face with your blanket as a child? When you would hide in your room?” he asked.

“Yes,” I admitted, remembering years of hiding under the blanket as a small child.

“It was your safe place?” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded, somewhat frustrated he wanted to rehash what we had already spoken of.

He tapped his finger on his lip.

“You lived in Los Angeles?” he asked.

“Oceanside at the time, by the military base. Say, closer to San Diego,” I responded.

“A very warm climate none the less,” he stated.

I nodded, “Yes sir.”

“Did you have the same bedding for the summer and winter? Not that there’s much of a winter in San Diego,” he asked.

I slumped into the comfort of the couch cushion. I pulled my hood from behind my shoulders, and onto my head. I looked up at the ceiling and thought. The summers in Oceanside were very hot, and I spent a lot of time at the beach. When it was winter, it was warm, but not hot. At night, it would get cold. When it was cold, I had my blanket that had the fighter jets on it. We kept that blanket in…

“My father kept the blankets in a foot locker, in the garage. We would get them out in the fall,” I blurted as soon as I recalled the memory of it.

“Mothballs,” he stated.

“Excuse me?” I asked, confused at his statement.

I sat up from my seated position and pulled my hood from my head.

“Mothballs. It’s very common for people in warmer climates to use mothballs when storing clothes and fabrics in a chest or locker. It prevents moths from eating the fabric in the off season. Your childhood blanket you covered your face with – the one you used as protection - it probably smelled of mothballs. Yesterday, when the chest at the foot of the bed was opened, the odor of mothballs resurrected the memories your mind had repressed for two decades. Odor is a strong trigger,” he said as he dropped the pen onto his desk.

I sat and thought about what he had said. I didn’t immediately feel better knowing why I had recalled the memories, but it was reassuring to know what had happened.

Mothballs.

“If I may, let’s take this a step further,” he said as he picked his pen up from the desk.

“Your hooded sweatshirt. You wear it at all times. At least during all seasons. I do realize you remove it,” he chuckled.

“The hooded sweatshirt has become your safety blanket - the one from childhood. You wear it to hide from what it is you’re uncertain of. Maybe what you want to protect yourself from. You wear it as superman wears his cape. It’s a conscious decision you make with subconscious benefits. The hooded sweatshirt, in a sense, has assisted you in the repression of those memories. Have you been wearing hooded sweatshirts for a long time?” he stopped tapping his pen and waited for a response.

I thought again about California, my father, and my grandfather. I didn’t remember wearing a hoodie in Oceanside. When I moved to Compton, I always had one. When we moved to Escondido for a while I had one, after mom was gone. From as best I could recall, I wore one from when we lived in Escondido until present time.

“I think I started wearing one when we lived in Escondido. I was around ten years old, I think – maybe eleven,” I responded, finding his entire routine interesting.

“Was your mother in Escondido, or was she already gone?” he asked.

“Gone,” I responded.

“Do you remember sleeping in a hooded sweatshirt?” he asked.

I scrunched my brow, finding this question odd. I thought about it as I sat up in the couch.

Is this asshole a doctor or a fucking detective?

“Yes, I guess so. I remember sleeping in it at my grandfather’s house. And now that I’m thinking about it, I remember wearing a hoodie at the house that had the orange trees, and that was in Escondido, by the highway,” I responded.

“Your hooded sweatshirt replaced your childhood blanket. You more than likely associated the blanket with your father’s abuse of your mother. When your mother left and you moved to a new house, your means of protection changed. You began to hide inside your hood, not the blanket. You consciously gave up the blanket, and your subconscious received the eventual benefit,” he smiled again.

This guy was good.

Putting all of the pieces together was a huge help, and I began to feel much better knowing what happened and why. It didn’t change my anger toward my father for the abuse of my mother, but I felt it helped me tremendously.

“I suppose you’re right, this is interesting,” I said as I leaned back into the seat and crossed my legs.

“You mentioned your grandfather earlier, but you did not mention a grandmother. Was your grandmother around during your childhood?” he leaned back into his chair and placed his hands behind his head.

“No, they were divorced,” I responded.

Silence.

No, surely not. My grandfather was one of the best men who ever existed. He was a saint. He was like a father to me. He taught me how to box, how to fight, how to channel my anger away from the streets and into the ring. He was a boxer. He was just like me, he was…

“If I may,” he said after a few moments silence.

I uncrossed my legs, and crossed my arms in front of my chest. I nodded my head.

“When did you start boxing? Training to box?” he asked.

“When I was eleven, give or take,” I responded.

“And you said earlier that your grandfather was your trainer and manager – until he died, correct?” he remained leaning back in his chair.

I nodded, “Yes sir.”

“I believe you channeled your anger toward your father through the boxing. Your anger at the entire situation. Your mother leaving, your exposure to her beatings, your developed hatred toward abusers of women,” he said calmly.

“I believe so, yes. I’ve always said I have demons inside of me. I suppose all of what we’re talking about now is what has fueled me for years,” I admitted.

“So, boxing allowed you to repress the memories of your mother, your father and the situation? To channel the anger and hatred elsewhere?” he asked softly.

His voice was nice and calm. I found him very easy to talk to.

“Yes sir,” I responded.

“And when your father came home from the war, you were happy to see him? You had no recollection of the beatings or abuse after you started boxing?” he asked.

“Yes, I was happy to see him. And no, I had no recollection of any abuse or beatings,” I responded.

“Now, your grandfather. I imagine if he trained you, if he was your trainer and your manager, he must have had experience?” he asked, still leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, he was a champion. He won several titles,” I responded quickly. I was proud of my grandfather.

He paused.

Silence.

“Wait a fucking minute, doc. What are you saying?” I snarled as I sat up in my seat.

He leaned forward and picked up his pen. “I’m not saying anything. What are you thinking, Shane?”

“Well, you stopped talking. I’m not stupid. You stop talking when you want me to think,” I frowned back at him.

“And what, Shane, did you think?” he asked.

“Well, I think you wanted me to think my grandfather abused my grandmother,” I said angrily.

“I didn’t want you to think anything, Shane. I gave you time to think whatever it is your mind developed as a thought or series of thoughts,” he said quietly.

“I don’t like this game,” I said as I pulled my hood onto my head.

“It’s not a game. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help you in regard to your father. Anger can destroy you. I’m trying to help you understand some things,” he looked at his watch.

“We’re about finished for the day, may I continue?” he asked.

I rolled my eyes.

“Sure,” I sighed.

“Your grandfather’s era. They rarely got divorced. Married couples in those days typically worked through any and all problems. It was perceived, back then, as being far more sacred and far more of a commitment. Considering all things, I suspect your father abused your mother. Now, your grandfather being a boxer, and the fact he was divorced,” he paused and picked up the pen from the desk.

“He may have abused your grandmother,” he held his hand in the air to prevent me from speaking and took a breath.

“I say this for one reason only. To give your father a reason for being the way he was. It wasn’t necessarily his fault he acted the way that he did. When children are exposed to abuse, they either become abusers or they’re like you – one hundred percent opposed to it. It’s anyone’s guess where people land. It’s like the son or daughter of a raging alcoholic. Some become alcoholic, and some are so opposed to the thought of drinking they abstain from it for a life time,” he paused and lowered his hand.

I thought about what he said.

“So you’re thinking maybe my father grew up seeing his father doing what I witnessed my father doing – and he just ended up abusing instead of abstaining?” I rubbed my chin and looked around the room.

“It’s a thought. It’s possible. We’ll never know,” he responded.

It made sense. Everything he had said about my hoodie and when I started wearing it as a child. The fact my childhood blanket had been used for security of sorts; and it was kept in a footlocker full of mothballs. My grandfather and his devotion to boxing; maybe it was why he got me involved in boxing. It was possible, I suppose, he started boxing as an outlet after my grandmother left. Knowing and understanding these things didn’t allow me to forgive my father for what he did, but it was beginning to help me understand.

As adults, we are a product of what we were exposed to as children. Generations of abuse breed generations of abusers. Until one person is strong enough to break the chain.

I’m strong enough.

I stood from the couch and pressed my jeans with my hands, removing the wrinkles. He stood from his chair and walked around his desk, a business card in his hand.

“Would you like to make another appointment for your next session?” he asked.

“No sir, I’m done here. I appreciate your help. I’ll be fine,” I pulled my hood over my head.

“Good luck in your upcoming fight, Mr. Dekkar. I’m here if you need me,” he said as he handed me the business card.

I placed the business card in my pocket and turned to face the door. I inhaled a slow breath through my nose and exhaled out my mouth. I grabbed the door handle and slowly opened the door, knowing the fight was the farthest thing from my mind right now. We all fight our battles differently. I chose to fight mine in the ring. My father fought his in Afghanistan and Iraq. Kace fought her battle attempting to make a relationship work which was destined to lose. We fight to form ourselves into something or someone we wouldn’t naturally become.

We fight to become stronger.

And the strength, ultimately, allows us to continue to fight.

And the fighting builds strength and provides us with experience until we are strong enough to stand on our own.

I slid my hand under my shirt and felt my chest. Bare. Bare of the dog tags I had always carried as a reminder of my father and his devotion to fight for what he believed to be just, right and moral. I walked through the lobby to the front door and opened it. Holding the door handle in my hand, I stood in the opening. I took a deep breath and looked out into the street. And I stepped out into the world with a mind full of new memories. Full of memories but free of the chains that have bound me for so many years.

I stepped out into the world.

Free.