"I don't even know where to begin," Max said, sitting uncomfortably in his seat.

Dr. Iburg, the therapist that his father recommended, sat across from him, his expression neutral as he responded, "Your father said that you've been having a recurring dream. One you hadn't had since childhood. We could start there. He didn't go into detail about what the contents of the dream were, but I was led to believe that they greatly troubled you."

Max shifted awkwardly before he continued. "Yeah, I had that dream when I first got adopted. Apparently it was a rough transition for me in the beginning."

"Apparently? You don't remember?"

"No, it's blurry. It's blurry for both of us, me and my sister. All I have is what I've been told by others. And not a lot of it has been pleasant."

"Like what?"

"Like...like the fact that I...ruined my best friend's chance at getting adopted because everyone thought that he was the unstable one, when really it was me. My old boss told me that a little over a year ago. I thought she was making it up, but...she didn't do things like that."

"So you believe her?"

"I mean...the dream...it keeps making me think...I've always felt that there was something wrong with me, I just never really knew what it was."

"Well, let's go back to this dream. What exactly happened in this dream?"

"Uh...in the dream...I'm...all alone. I'm alone in this room-well, it's a cave, really. And my ankle is chained up, and I'm little, like around seven years old. And it's cold, it's dark, and I'm all alone. And I sit there, just waiting. I don't talk, because I can't-or just don't, I'm still a little confused on that part. I don't get up because I can't. I don't try to leave, I don't scream, I don't struggle, I don't do anything but wait. Wait to be let out. I don't even cry. I just sit there and shiver and wait. It's a routine, it's clockwork, I just sleepwalk and try to get through it. I wait for hours for someone to come and no one does.

"And the worst part...the worst part is that I'm there because I did something bad. It just felt like I had done something bad and that's why I'm in there. Like I deserved to be in there and left there to rot. So I stay there and I don't move, and I don't talk and I wait. Then, someone comes. Actually three someones...Come to find out, that recurring dream...was actually a memory of my time before I got adopted. They're the people who made me."

"Your biological parents?" Dr. Iburg asked.

Max just shook his head and said, "No. Not my parents. I mean the people who made me. I was...something of a...well, the man who came to get me was kind of an unwilling sperm donor for me. The women who made me, they had kids of their own. They didn't have me because they wanted another. I don't really…"

Max trailed off, searching for a way to say this without giving too much away.

"I sense you're holding back," Dr. Iburg observed.

"Yeah," he responded with a humorless chuckle. "To be honest with you, I have a hard time with the truth, with most people anyway. I think it's because I've always had to watch what I say ever since I was a little kid. I've had to make sure that I don't say something that makes people look at me funny. That makes them look at me like what I am...a freak. Because that's what I am. I'm a freak. An angry, emotional, selfish, broken, clingy, freak. And if my parents knew anything about where I really come from and what I'm actually capable of," he clenched his fists instinctively, "they never would have taken me home. I know this for a fact."

"And how do you know this for a fact?"

"Because my mom told me that the only reason they adopted me and not my best friend from the group home was because they thought that he did something that I did. All that extra help and attention that they thought he needed...that should have been me. He got the short end of the stick trying to save me. That's why he's resented me all these years. I know it. He may not remember it, but that's why. And he should. Because he should have been me and I should have been him. It wasn't fair. It's still not fair. It's not fair that they thought that I was perfect and delicate and needed protection and left behind the kid who actually needed them. It really makes me wonder a lot about my parents and what would happen if they knew the truth."

"And what is the truth? You talk a lot about being broken and bad and deserving to be locked away and left behind by these people who you say made you but weren't your real family. Did you ever try to find out who your real parents were after you realized that this was a memory?"

"Yeah, I did. I found the man from the memory. And I thought that he was my father at first. He looked...the first time I saw him, without really seeing him was in a memory. It was blurry. I saw this woman who was not my mother, but I thought she was. Turns out she was just my babysitter. I came from something else, they said...I looked in the mirror and I...was so scared. I was so scared of what I saw in the mirror and I had no idea why. Now I do. I came from him. They used him to make me. I guess they thought that I...I have no idea what they thought. I just know that I was nothing to them, any of them. I was a means to an end. I was a weapon, I was a tool, I was just a...puppet. I was a mistake. I was nobody's son, nobody's brother. I was just a mistake. So I got isolated and kept away from their kids so that I couldn't...I don't even know what. And that realization that I'm...replaceable, that I'm a mistake. That I'm broken...

"I get it now. I never wanted to find them, the people who made me, where I came from, because going back to the start meant going back to that room. Going back to those chains. I remembered. I didn't know that I remembered, but I did. I remembered how they used me, I remembered how they made me vulnerable to him, how they left me vulnerable, period. They didn't even give me a name, I was 'the other'. They told one of their kids that they might have to kill me one day. They had no idea who I was or who I would grow up to be...they just assumed that...I was born bad and would grow up bad and stay bad and would need to be put down."

He was crying. He had started crying at some point during this confession. When had he started? He wiped his eyes away, ashamed that he had broken down this way.

"Okay," said Dr. Iburg neutrally. Max looked up at him and saw that his confession had affected the doctor who was trying to keep it together. "Okay. We'll come back to that other stuff about...what they asked. Which they had absolutely no right to do, by the way, though I hope that goes without saying. So, is it possible that you've lived your whole life afraid of going back to that room? That you've tried to be good to prove something to them and to yourself? That you suppress all your feelings out of fear of lashing out and proving them right about you?"

"I...never really thought about it all that much."

"It sounds to me like you've thought about it a great deal. Too much, almost. That's a problem. People say not thinking at all is a problem, and it is, but thinking too much, my God, that's a problem in and of itself. It sounds like you've thought too much about this. It's eaten away at you for a long time. Let's go back a bit to these three people in your life. Who were they to you, or can you remember?"

"I remember some of it. There are a lot of blanks in my memory. But...remember what I told you about my relationship with the truth?"

"Tell me as much as you're comfortable with. That's how this works. Go ahead, whenever you're ready."