I am, by nature, a gregarious extrovert. Except at the gym. There, I keep to myself. Eyes down. Focus within. Conscious breathing. Feel the pain. Let the exhaustion carry you away. I think of it like a religious discipline.
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I’m in the seventh grade, in music class, singing a stanza. My couplet is “Powdered wig, big fat pig.” My problem is that Mano is standing next to me, whispering in my ear, “Powdered wig, big fat Denise.”
With full knowledge aforethought I’m about to reveal ... well, that’s just the thing: I don’t know what I might reveal. I just decided to take the risk. To start typing and see what happens.
Unfortunately, your advice of Nike Therapy works with very few people. For most, the symptoms they bring to therapy are not within the conscious control that you would have us believe.
My private practice is replete with issues of divorce, helping children cope with divorce, parental alienation, postmarital dating and blended families. Single-parent homes. Various custody arrangements. Two birthdays. Two Christmas celebrations. Two vacations. And how the hell do you group photographs at ensuing weddings, bar mitzvahs and baptisms?
I keep seeing the “It Can Wait” public service commercials. There’s a website, itcanwait.com, where you can sign a pledge to never text and drive. I’d go there and sign the pledge, but I don’t need to. I have my mother instead. And my girlfriend. Together, they converted me (through strategic harping) to a “no texting while driving” policy.
I’m going to institute an annual Emily Litella Award for Human Matters reader-mail.
The Freudian Mystique is culturally pervasive. People come to therapy hoping to find that dramatic flash of insight. That “ah-ha” moment when they can say “That’s it! That’s the reason! I bite my fingernails as a compensation for my mother’s ‘rejecting, withholding breast,’ at which I did not have a nurturing experience!”
A little over 5 years ago I learned that my husband had been cheating during the entire 20 years of our marriage.
But, “cherish their mother?” I’m a guy that has been involved with a number of wives and one child, and I find that a lot of mothers these days are involved in parental alienation.
For the ancient Hebrews, fertility, pregnancy and birth were not first and foremost biological events; they were theological metaphors.
2010. My son is 8, and in the second grade. I am driving him to school. He is in the back seat, lost in his Nintendo DS game device. Suddenly a long-suffering sigh wafts up into the front seat. Then the voice so quiet, so innocent, so sincere and thoughtful: “This is all messed up.”
I’m a man who’s been blessed with a fine family. My daughter recently announced the pending arrival of a grandkid, out of the traditional order of things.
When two people decide to make a sexually exclusive commitment with an intention to permanence, it’s a big deal. A huge deal, if for no other reason than it runs contrary to evolution and biology.
F ather’s Day 1991. It’s 12:47 a.m. In the Sonoran desert skies, three planets align to form an ultrabright “star” in the western sky. It just adds drama to the already dramatic events taking place with me, in me and around me that night.
I have been married for 10 years on my second marriage. I love the man I’m married to and see us together for life. I am also having an affair with another man.
My death is not very interesting. It’s likely the least important part of my life. And the circumstances of my death might be less interesting than that.
They say, sometimes, of a baseball pitcher, “He’s gonna waste one.” This means the pitcher has reason to deliberately not throw a strike. The pitcher is going to throw around the strike zone. It’s a chess game. His purpose is to test the batter. To lure the batter into the pitcher’s game. To see if the batter will expose some tendency or intention. To keep the batter off balance. So the pitcher “wastes one.”
I remember when Mary Poppins conjured a strong wind to literally blow away the queue of applicants for the position of nanny to Jane and Michael Banks. One moment, there were 20-plus proper English women standing in line, waiting to be interviewed.
A friend tells me about his therapy and his therapist. For session after session — weeks, now — my friend has tried to explain the history between his brother and himself. He has taken great pains to describe the great pain he carries about the relationship — chronically disrespectful, disdainful, scornful, critical and bullying. Never physically abusive, but emotionally cold and sometimes just plain humiliating. Since as long as my friend can remember.
When I was a child, my father more than once threatened to get a baseball bat and etch “Steven’s Attention Getter” into the wood. He told and retold a story about a farmer plowing a field behind a stubborn ol’ mule, the punch line of which had to do with the stick the father carried on the plow — the mule’s “Attention Getter.”
For years I’ve argued that “love is not how we feel but how we act” — with “argue” too often becoming the operational outcome — and you develop that concept insightfully and eloquently. But does your parenting example validate the claim that no difference exists “between a love you can’t show and not being loved at all?”
So, if I said to you, “I’ve opened a bank account in your name. The account contains a balance of $5 million. To access the money, you’ll need the PIN number, which only I know. And I’m not going to tell you.”
When we set a value or a goal, we incur an obligation to move toward that goal. Most people think of the process of moving toward the goal as a set of transactions. Actions that move us toward the goal are credits. Actions that move us away from the goal are debits.
When is the right time to introduce the children to the new mate? This is a question that I always ask myself.