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I couldn't be faulted for doing my best to fight off the depression from these urges that had clutched at me since high school. My parents, bless them, had done what they could to help me—my dad, especially, by guiding me through various sports programs, giving his all to the effort to give me the All-American sports hero life—using up all my time so I didn't have much of a chance to get into trouble. I'd enjoyed the sports, and they certainly had toughened me up, but any effect they had on my "walking on eggs" depression was all superficial. I couldn't even begin to tell my parents what was really at the root of my problem. My dad would have curled up and died.

It was only when I was out of college—and beyond the consuming collegiate football and basketball programs—that I was able to seek help on my own terms, to give name to my urges and voice to how deeply they screwed with my life.

Dr. Shelton was the first one ever I told of my affliction. I just sat on the sofa in his office and looked into his sympathetic and nonjudgmental eyes and poured it all out. It did feel a little better to have it out in the open to someone beyond myself. But that didn't get rid of the urges and of the guilty feelings they evoked.

I'd always thought that these shrinks didn't really suggest anything of use, that they were trained to make you face it yourself and come up with your own answers. But Dr. Shelton came right out with what I ...

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