Entries by tag: therapy
Sleep well. A gland in the command
center releases its yellow hornet
to tell you you're missing the point,
the point being that getting smacked
by a board, gored by umbrellas, tongue-
lashed by cardiologists, bush-wacked
by push-up bras is a learning experience.
Sure, you're about learned up. Weren't
we promised the thieves would be punished?
Promised jet-packs and fleshy gardenias
and wine to get the dust out of our mouths?
And endless forgiveness? A floral rot
comes out of the closet, the old teacher's
voice comes out of the ravine, red-wings
in rushes never forget their rusty-hinged
song. Moon-song, dread-song, hardly-a-song
at all song. Let's ignore that call,
let someone else stop Mary from herself
for the 80th time. It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull. Take
my hand, fellow figment. Every spring
we'll meet, definite as swarms of stars,
insects over glazed puddles, your eyes
green even though your driver's license
says otherwise. And yes, mortal knells
in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty
boats against a dock but still the mind
is a meadow, the heart an ocean even though
it burns. As long as there's a sky, someone
will be falling from it. After molting,
eat your own shucked skin for strength,
keep changing the subject in hopes
that the subject will change you.
center releases its yellow hornet
to tell you you're missing the point,
the point being that getting smacked
by a board, gored by umbrellas, tongue-
lashed by cardiologists, bush-wacked
by push-up bras is a learning experience.
Sure, you're about learned up. Weren't
we promised the thieves would be punished?
Promised jet-packs and fleshy gardenias
and wine to get the dust out of our mouths?
And endless forgiveness? A floral rot
comes out of the closet, the old teacher's
voice comes out of the ravine, red-wings
in rushes never forget their rusty-hinged
song. Moon-song, dread-song, hardly-a-song
at all song. Let's ignore that call,
let someone else stop Mary from herself
for the 80th time. It's never really dark
anyway, not even inside the skull. Take
my hand, fellow figment. Every spring
we'll meet, definite as swarms of stars,
insects over glazed puddles, your eyes
green even though your driver's license
says otherwise. And yes, mortal knells
in sleepless hours, hollow knocks of empty
boats against a dock but still the mind
is a meadow, the heart an ocean even though
it burns. As long as there's a sky, someone
will be falling from it. After molting,
eat your own shucked skin for strength,
keep changing the subject in hopes
that the subject will change you.
...if therapy WORKS, it transforms a patient's limbic brain and his emotional landscape forever. The person of the therapist will determine the shape of the new world a patient is bound for; the configuration of HIS limbic Attractors fixes those of the other. Thus the urgent necessity for a therapist to get his own emotional house in order. His patients are coming to stay, and they may have to live there for the rest of their lives.
--Lewis, Amini and Lannon in A General Theory of Love p187
(emphases are original)
--Lewis, Amini and Lannon in A General Theory of Love p187
(emphases are original)
Last night I listened to This American Life on NPR, and as usual, the program was fascinating and well done. This particular program was the story of how homosexuality transitioned from being considered a pathology (a result of "close binding mothers" and "detached rejecting fathers") to being seen among psychiatrists as a "normal variant".
( more, originally posted 5/14/07, moved forward to 2/10Collapse )
( more, originally posted 5/14/07, moved forward to 2/10Collapse )
Found this list here thanks to 
midnight_swirl. Check out the original article here.
11 STYLES OF NEGATIVE THINKING
( midnight_swirl's breakdown of the stylesCollapse )
midnight_swirl. Check out the original article here.11 STYLES OF NEGATIVE THINKING
( midnight_swirl's breakdown of the stylesCollapse )
The lady featured in this article was working as an addictions counselor for $20/hour with just a bachelor's degree, and landed a client who really was dangerous.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/story/2008/08/10/ST2008081000071.html
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/story/2008/08/10/ST2008081000071.html
Silence is the kiss of death for any relationship. Silence rules where there is fear, and pain. Silence is the absence of honest discourse. It begins when we each find each other's buttons, and agree to no longer go there. We each have different buttons, and they become surrounded with silent zones.
( buttons and silenceCollapse )
( buttons and silenceCollapse )
- Current Mood:
grateful - Current Music:interstate 17 roaring in the distance
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