There's a story about a convention of psychiatrists who had gathered in a large auditorium near Grand Central Station in New York City. Somehow, a pigeon got in the room and was swooping back and forth above the gathered men and women. However, no one mentioned the bird. It seemed no one wanted to be the first to ask if anyone else saw a pigeon. I mention this to remind us that we each have an inward life of thoughts and perceptions about which no one else knows. It's a private world where we pretend, where we fantasize and engage in the sometimes difficult work of building up a satisfying self image, often wrestling with emotional demons in the process. It involves a certain amount of denial, frequently concealing much about ourselves, not only from others but even at times from ourselves…