My Therapist was Worse than No Therapist.

The summer of 2003, I was thirteen and I was moving into my summer camp bunk. I remember wanting to dig a hole and bury myself alive when I randomly spotted my therapist whizzing by on a golf cart and waving to me, wearing a khaki fishing hat, dorky round sunglasses, and cargo shorts. As it turned out, his daughter also attended the camp and he recognized me.