There is a therapeutic practice called “processing” that you have probably heard of. In many of its depictions in entertainment, it coalesces into a Good Will Hunting-esque denouement in which a person punches the wall, screams out a truth, or sobs an admission of fear, hatred, regret, and so forth. Its manifold uses for actual PTSD suffers aside, we are going to attempt to employ it here, right now. We’re 44 games into this hot mess of a messy season, and it’s time to lay some things bare.
So get up onto the couch, criticize that weird middle-aged person in the sweater vest, and let’s try to follow our anger.