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Personal Narrative Behavioral Therapy

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It was gone- my arm. Torn right off where the humorous met the clavicle. Behind their constant looks of pity and commiseration, I could tell the doctors were disgusted. And despite my protests, Kevin was arrested upon my cousins urging. Eight days. They kept him secure under lock and key for eight days. “It’s for your protection,” “He can’t hurt you anymore,” “You will receive justice,” everyone claimed. How little they knew. . . When he was released due to insufficient evidence, the court mandated counseling for us. Three times a week we went and sat in a room with pure white walls and a woman who insisted she could solve all our problems. For the first few days, Kevin came along with me willingly. He sat on the floor, pressed up against the back wall, a blank looked plastered on his face. Those days were the easiest. I had someone there who understood and believed. They listened intently as I told the stories of my traumatic, intermittent travels to the pre-civil war era in the form of dreams. The therapy helped for, at least, a little while. Eventually, after a few weeks, it became an event I grew to resent. I detested the therapist for her claims that my trips weren’t real. Despite my first assertion that they were only dreams, she, rightfully, didn’t buy it. …show more content…

As part of our quest for the truth, we searched any and all public records relating to the Weylins and their slaves. After the first few days of fruitless searching, we discovered as much of the truth as we would ever receive. According to the records, Rufus died in a fire that completely obliterated the house. It was upon reading this, I concluded Nigel had covered my tracks well. As far as what happened to him and the other slaves, the records were ambiguous. Back then, whites payed little attention to what became of slaves unless money was

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