I put the flashback into words once I’d reached my destination, and spewed a whole lot more, sharing several more memories that seemed to consume me. “The reality is, none of it’s true,” I said as the clock was winding down on the session with my shrink. “All those tender moments, the words, the actions, the feelings—especially those—I made it all up.”
“All of it?”
The therapy was mandatory, thirty minutes three times a week, part of the requirements for returning to work after the theater shooting. I was finding it beneficial, or thought I might, if I finally got truthful.
“All of it,” I said.
“You always wait until the end to make the big revelations.” Lisa, my shrink, was no nonsense. I’d half-assed my psychiatric treatment at the beginning, right after. November and December of 201
