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Children of trauma : rediscovering your discarded self / Jane Middelton-Moz.

By: Middelton-Moz, Jane, 1947-.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookPublisher: Deerfield Beach, Fla. : Health Communications, c1989Description: xvii, 185 pages : illustrations ; 22 cm.Content type: text Media type: unmediated Carrier type: volumeISBN: 9781558740143 (pbk).Subject(s): Adult child abuse victims -- Mental health | Adult child abuse victims -- Rehabilitation | Self-care, HealthDDC classification: Online resources: Sample text | Publisher description
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Non-Fiction Davis (Central) Library
Non-Fiction
Non-Fiction 616.8582 MID 1 Available

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

Imagine what it would be like to become the healthiest person you could be.....

This is the inherent right of each individual but when lingering emotional trauma from our childhood blocks the normal developmental process, we get struck. As each of us strives to become the healthiest person we possibly can, we will have to come face-to-face with emotional fears that may be the result of traumatic childhoods. Although that journey may be paved with the paid of unresolved grief and unrecognized loss, this book will serve as the map to guide you and help you rediscover your discarded self...

...the best self you were always meant to be.

Bibliography: p. 179-185.

11 37 85 86

Table of contents provided by Syndetics

  • Foreword (p. xvi)
  • 1. The Discarded Self, An Overview Of Children Of Trauma (p. 1)
  • 2. Where I Stop And You Begin: Developing Emotional Boundaries (p. 19)
  • 3. Panic Attacks: A Window To The Frightened Child (p. 71)
  • 4. Relationships: Attempts At Mastery (p. 89)
  • 5. Dimestores, Bakeries, Businesses And Bingo (p. 121)
  • 6. You And Me Against Me: The Unfair Odds Of Self-Hate (p. 137)
  • 7. From Legacy To Choice (p. 155)
  • Bibliography (p. 179)

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

CHAPTER ONE The Discarded Self,An Overview Of Children Of Trauma Later In 1984 by Brook this safe place i call home of my mother: what does it offer? calamity was its fuel for heat. sorrow fed our mouths for dinner. and you, mother, i fear you still. this place i call home of my mother: i say i no longer live here but i find pieces of my heart in each room. must i claim them? they are half eaten, half rotten. i walk through the rooms. step by step. piece by piece. i place the pieces in a sack. and you, mother, i fear you still. this safe place i called home of my mother: i have my own home. you have your sorrows. i have my pieces. and you, mother, i fear you less. SandyStanding still in the same spot for the past five minutes, the little girl remained perfectly erect. Her small-boned hands were clutched behind her. Her tiny leotard covered legs were crossed at the ankles and held tightly together. The pressed white pinafore was without a wrinkle. She spoke a little louder, "Mommy please, I need to go to the bathroom." Four, perhaps five years old, the little girl appeared much older. As she stood near her engrossed parents in Chicago's O'Hare airport, Sandy was too patient, too sedate for a normal child of her age. Fighting in strained intense tones, her parents seemed oblivious to the child's persistent yet patient requests. Another few minutes passed. Slowly she reached up and touched her mother's arm. "Mommy, please!" The mother grabbed the little girl by her shoulders, "Well go then. Sandy, will you grow up? Can't you see I'm busy talking to your father? Go!" While her parents resumed muffled retaliations above the noise of the airport hubbub, Sandy backed away. Pulling herself even more erect, she started walking hesitantly down the crowded hall. A curious marionette in a well-starched pinafore, Sandy paused now and again. Trying her best to look grown up, she mostly appeared frightened, confused, alone. JimmyMonths and miles away, another child was playing quietly under the chairs of his mother's table in an airport cafeteria. Jimmy appeared to be about four. His very young mother painted and repainted her face, sipping cocktails with abrupt anxious movements. Every few minutes she would jump up and run to the door, nervously checking for the arrival of the plane for which she was so impatiently waiting. Jimmy darted after her, "Wait, Mommy, wait!" She would turn, put one hand on her hip and point a threatening finger in his direction. "Get back there! Do you want to ruin this relationship, too? Damn it, Jimmy, leave me alone!" Glaring at his mother, he retreated to the table and began taking sugar packets out of a bowl and tossing them one by one on the floor. For this behavior, Jimmy would get soundly shaken, slapped on the backside and banished to his stainless steel shelter. "Get back under there, you brat. You're just like your drunken old man! Stay out of the way!" During one such int Excerpted from Children of Trauma: Rediscovering Your Discarded Self by Jane Middelton-Moz All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.