When I was in high school, I loved math except for the word problems. The problem with word problems in math is that they have words in them. The words are the problem. Farmers and apple trees and bushels don’t make sense in math.
Math was a big break from all other subjects, especially history and English; numbers are great and fun and do weird things when you mix them up in different ways.
Negative numbers and negative square roots are fun and fit the real definition of negative. Negative numbers and other numbers and signs can’t kill each other or invade each other for strange reasons.
That’s it. Math is a big break from words and real negative stuff like wars and evil people.
Post by @AHuelsenbeck.
Source: Monday Morning Wisdom #16
A woman’s Facebook rant about why leggings are not pants has won the resounding approval of the internet.
Source: This Woman’s Rant On Why ‘Leggings Aren’t Pants’ Is Breaking The Damn Internet
This is a really well written description of a really healthy interchange in a therapy “session” on the phone. Also, I myself find that sometimes I feel more useful to my patients on the phone than in person. This is also a great response to a patient in crisis reaching out for help from the only healthy “mothering” figure she has. This blog also reminds me on a separate topic that isn’t connected to the blog post, that therapists sometimes pull away when a patient “needs” them more between sessions. There are no rules that apply except healthy flexible boundaries, neither rigid nor too loose; you can feel the firm boundaries that always help patients as well as caring and being “involved” with the patient’s emotional crisis, so she doesn’t have to suffer alone…
Warning: this is kind of intense written from the point of view of someone who suffers from “dermatillomania”, a skin picking compulsion. I am not doing this in real life but I work with patients who have this issue usually due to childhood trauma… In some ways the urges and picking is similar to self cutting behaviors where it’s soothing in some way and people who feel like they aren’t allowed to really be who they are can feel the physical sensation as well as trying to get to dig to some sense of self.
So here is the poem:
Picking at my skin, digging in, popping a pimple open then feeling a bit of wetness ooze out. Can’t stop now, digging in with the nail of my right index finger. I get in my pale skin and under to the red raw piece. Greedy for bleeding, small drop of red blood wets on top of the cut my nail made. The jail of skin opens up to me to get under and pick more. Sore skin blood thin. My face full of pick marks more like ripped paper, not skin. Deep in I could get to bone and then would I be real? Would I be my own me? The marks on my face like writing, writing my thin hiding, my skin turned inside out I am so far in I can’t come out without pus and blood, sore and wet like grout that holds together frail pieces of my cover.