Billy answers easily, “It’s, like, dancing around the boy. You know, beating its chest. Being threatening. You know. Its, like . . . a gorilla.” Over the years, all manner of metaphors for the internal harsh child have spilled into my office—sharks, bloody force fields, Hitlers, monsters. In comparison, Billy’s dancing gorilla seemed almost whimsical, relatively benign. “Is it saying anything?” I ask Billy. “Well . . .” Billy shifts in his chair. “Actually, yes,” he says. Suddenly, all the warmth of the preceding moment drains from his face. Billy sits up straight in his chair. He looks grim.
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