Page 67 of Undefeated

“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 months, I do realize that you remove it,” he chuckled.

“That hooded sweatshirt has become your safety blanket - the one from childhood. You wear it to hide from what it is that you’re uncertain or 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. That 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 don’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. I wore one from when we lived in Escondido until now, I suppose.

“I think I started wearing one when we lived in Escondido. I was around ten years old, I think – maybe eleven,” I responded, finding this 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 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 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 these pieces together was a huge help, and I was beginning to feel much better already knowing what happened and why. It didn’t change my anger toward my father for the abuse of my mother, but 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 that 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 that you channeled your anger toward your father through the boxing. Your anger at the situation. Your mothers leaving, your exposure to the 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, 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.