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Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed

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Author

Lori Gottlieb
Lori Gottlieb

Lori Gottlieb is an American writer born on December 20, 1966. Her works primarily focus on themes such as personal growth, interpersonal relationships, and mental health, which have won her a wide audience. more

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“Infant (hope)—trust versus mistrust Toddler (will)—autonomy versus shame Preschooler (purpose)—initiative versus guilt School-age child (competence)—industry versus inferiority Adolescent (fidelity)—identity versus role confusion Young adult (love)—intimacy versus isolation Middle-aged adult (care)—generativity versus stagnation Older adult (wisdom)—integrity versus despair”

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Book:Maybe You Should Talk to Someone: A Therapist, Her Therapist, and Our Lives Revealed
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“Some people hope that therapy will help them find a way to be heard by whoever they feel wronged them, at which point those lovers or relatives will see the light and become the people they’d wished for all along. But it rarely happens like that. At some point, being a fulfilled adult means taking responsibility for the course of your own life and accepting the fact that now you’re in charge of your choices.”

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“At that time he was a mere puppy, soft from the making, without form, ready for the thumb of circumstance to begin its work upon him. But now it was different. The thumb of circumstance had done its work only too well. By it he had been formed and hardened into the Fighting Wolf, fierce and implacable, unloving and unlovable. To accomplish the change was like a reflux of being, and this when the plasticity of youth was no longer his; when the fibre of him had become tough and knotty; when the warp and the woof of him had made of him an adamantine texture, harsh and unyielding; when the face of his spirit had become iron and all his instincts and axioms had crystallised into set rules, cautions, dislikes, and desires.”

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“She needs to wake up," said Boots. "Hazard is crying. When does she wake up?" Gregor could not find it within him to give his standard reply. To pretend that in a short time Thalia would be back with them, laughing and happy. And somehow it seemed wrong to try. Boots was getting older. Very soon, she would begin to realize the truth on her own, anyway. "She's not going wake up," he told her. "She's dead." "She doesn't wake up?" said Boots. "No, not this time," said Gregor. "This time, she had to go away." Boots looked around at all their faces, at Hazard crying. "Where did she go?" No one had an answer. "Where is Thalia when she doesn't wake up?" The question hung in the air for an eternity. Finally, it was Howard who spoke up. "Why, she's in your heart, Boots." "My heart?" said Boots, putting both hands on her chest. "Yes. That's where she lives now," said Howard. "She can fly away?" asked Boots, pressing her palms tightly against her heart as if to keep Thalia from escaping. "Oh, no, she will stay there forever," said Howard.”

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“Most narcissists lack the capacity to give significant, authentic love and empathy, and you have no choice but to deal with this reality. Accepting that your own mother has this limited capacity is the first step. Let go of the expectation that it will ever be different. Most daughters I know have gone through long periods in their lives not understanding this, always wishing and hoping that the next encounter with their mother will be different.”

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“it seems I must love even you easier loving the pretty things the children the morning glories easier (as compassion grows) to love the stranger easy even to realize (with compassion) the pain and terror implicit in those who treat the world around them with such brutality such hate but oh I am no christ blessing my executioners I am no buddha no saint nor have I that incandescent strength of faith illuminated yet even so you are a sentient being breathing this air even as I am a sentient being breathing this air seeking my own enlightenment I must seek yours if I had love enough if I had faith enough perhaps I could transcend your path and alter even that forgive me, then― I cannot love you yet”

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Book:Collected Poems of Lenore Kandel
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