以my mom know best为题写英语作文带翻译
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以my mom know best为题写英语作文带翻译
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"My mom is my best friend. I can talk to her about everything, she helps me through everything. We don't really have any secrets," I said, playing with the weave of the orange upholstered chair I was sitting on in a cramped therapist office at the University of Wisconsin's free health center.
"Maybe that's a part of the problem," said the therapist, kindly.
"What?"
Maybe that's part of the problem. You're living in a house without walls. Your house needs walls."
"I don't think you understand," I clarified. "This isn't, like, a weird family bed situation."
"No," she said. "Emotional walls. Maybe the fact that you've given your mother so much access to yourself and vice versa has made it more difficult for you to feel like your own person."
Hearing this, my immediate reaction was to reject the theory. I physically recoiled to the point where the therapist asked me to examine my own body language and, when I did, I realized that I had practically folded myself into the chair like a pretzel; my arms were crossed so tight that my elbows hurt.
The reason I was in this office to begin with was because I was feeling so isolated that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It had gotten to the point where, when I wasn't in class, I was usually lying alone on the living room floor crying and, up until that point, my mother was the only person I could talk to about how I was feeling.
"You're saying I should block her out?" I asked, stunned.
"No, I'm saying that you need to set boundaries."
At the time, this information sent me reeling — how was I supposed to get over feeling like a broken puzzle piece by rejecting the one person who had always accepted me for who I was unconditionally? — but looking back, she was right.
My mother has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. In high school, while other friends were having screaming matches with their parents over curfews, I was leaving house parties early to watch What Not To Wear on the couch with my mom because I preferred her company. Since I was a child, our weekend ritual has included walking together to get iced teas at the local coffee shop where they have always saved us two of our favorite kinds of muffins (which both of us, strangely enough, eat with a knife and fork). My mom is kind, intelligent, funny and a good listener. I can say without bias (okay, fine, with total bias) that I've never encountered a person more worth being friends with.
"Maybe that's a part of the problem," said the therapist, kindly.
"What?"
Maybe that's part of the problem. You're living in a house without walls. Your house needs walls."
"I don't think you understand," I clarified. "This isn't, like, a weird family bed situation."
"No," she said. "Emotional walls. Maybe the fact that you've given your mother so much access to yourself and vice versa has made it more difficult for you to feel like your own person."
Hearing this, my immediate reaction was to reject the theory. I physically recoiled to the point where the therapist asked me to examine my own body language and, when I did, I realized that I had practically folded myself into the chair like a pretzel; my arms were crossed so tight that my elbows hurt.
The reason I was in this office to begin with was because I was feeling so isolated that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It had gotten to the point where, when I wasn't in class, I was usually lying alone on the living room floor crying and, up until that point, my mother was the only person I could talk to about how I was feeling.
"You're saying I should block her out?" I asked, stunned.
"No, I'm saying that you need to set boundaries."
At the time, this information sent me reeling — how was I supposed to get over feeling like a broken puzzle piece by rejecting the one person who had always accepted me for who I was unconditionally? — but looking back, she was right.
My mother has been my best friend for as long as I can remember. In high school, while other friends were having screaming matches with their parents over curfews, I was leaving house parties early to watch What Not To Wear on the couch with my mom because I preferred her company. Since I was a child, our weekend ritual has included walking together to get iced teas at the local coffee shop where they have always saved us two of our favorite kinds of muffins (which both of us, strangely enough, eat with a knife and fork). My mom is kind, intelligent, funny and a good listener. I can say without bias (okay, fine, with total bias) that I've never encountered a person more worth being friends with.
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