Therapists say the unconscious is the mind's "cupboard under the stairs" where our traumas, embarrassments and most private memories are stowed. I once had an actual cupboard under the stairs rammed to the door with, among other things, three broken shower heads that I felt sure I'd need again one day. "What's in that cupboard?" my boyfriend wanted to know. "Nothing," I said, fearing exposure. I felt as if the cupboard under the stairs were my actual unconscious. One . . .

It was a new millennium and my mother was covered in blood. As usual, it was entirely my fault. I should explain: My best Christmas—aside from the year I was given a puppet of Ernie from Sesame Street—was undoubtedly the one somewhere in the middle of my long teenage malaise, when my parents got me a video camera. I dropped hints for months until finally, wonderfully, they conceded. It was a family camcorder that made everything look like the nightmares of . . .