I grew up in a strict authoritarian household where I had very little freedom. It was a house in which you had to ask permission to have a glass of water — because after all, someone had to wash it later.
A promise to be the person who washed the glass wasn’t good enough. » Read more
Many long-time readers of the blog know that I identify as a recovering people pleaser. It’s been a long road to recovery, bolstered by an excellent support system and a round of assertiveness therapy several years back.
Growing up under the thumb of a difficult mercurial parent, I learned early on how to anticipate her needs and accommodate them, » Read more
I recently covered a study on pronoun use and attachment styles for Psyched for the Weekend, a recurring feature in which I geek out with brief takes about some of my favorite psychological studies and concepts.
As part of that article, I posted a quiz that you can take to discover your own attachment style. » Read more
A while ago, I wrote a piece called “Abused Kids Get to Look Like Their Bullies“:
On countless mornings, I glimpse my reflection in the mirror and want to punch myself in the face.
Because I look like her at certain angles.
Her chin, strong but not square. » Read more
“Oh shit,” I say, realizing what I’ve just said sounds terrible. “I really didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m sorry.”
The pause between when I say that and when he speaks seems to last forever. But finally he breaks the silence. “It’s okay. I understand.”
It’s probably a minor thing to him. » Read more
“I read today’s article, the one about recovery,” she says. “And I think you’re right about spite being a powerful motivator.”
I nod. “Especially when you’re down in it. People tell you that you need to love yourself to be healthy. But when you’re emotionally unwell, it isn’t like self-love is all that accessible. » Read more
When we become adults, we start parenting ourselves.
And this can be good or bad, depending on what models you had for it.
I was at a bit of a disadvantage in this department, as the one model I’d had for parenting caused emotional paralysis.
I grew up in a strict authoritarian household. » Read more
“It’s not the drugs,” Kurt said. “It’s the people you meet because of the drugs.”
He was a heavy user and had been for some time. Like many people, when I first met him, I’d pegged him for an addict. Assumed that his use was as simple as that, biochemical dependency. » Read more
Justin’s in the kitchen, sitting on the floor. Messing with our shoes. He looks like he’s organizing them on the rack next to the back door. He looks up at me. “Hi sweetie.”
“Hi,” I choke out, my greeting barely audible over the Electric Light Orchestra spilling out of the speaker. I dart back to the living room. » Read more
In spite of the fact that we haven’t seen each other in years, I still think about my therapist Sue every now and then.
On the surface, we shouldn’t have worked well together therapeutically. Because we didn’t have much in common. She was a mild-mannered person with Biblical verse plaques sprinkled on the walls of her office. » Read more