Dr Sears Quotes

removed an inch long section. She almost called Dr. Sears, but

Again with the Dr. Russell bullshit. We’re off the clock. “Matt,” I correct. She shoots me a quick, searing glare that leaves me with third-degree burns.

Film is thus immoral by its very nature, transforming the actor into a fetish and fostering perversion in the viewer, who allows himself to be seduced like a moth to the flame. The difference lies in that the cinema audience’s appointment is with the cold flicker of the flame rather than the searing fire itself. The moth burns up, but the viewer can, without fear, surrender to his escalating desire and seek out the experience over and over again, as is, alas, far too often the case. —Dr. G. Árnason, excerpt from “Cinema and Mental Disorders,” The Nation 23 (1916)

It’s so weird that it’s Christmas Eve,” I said, clinking my glass to his. It was the first time I’d spent the occasion apart from my parents. “I know,” he said. “I was just thinking that.” We both dug into our steaks. I wished I’d made myself two. The meat was tender and flavorful, and perfectly medium-rare. I felt like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, when she barely seared a steak in the middle of the afternoon and devoured it like a wolf. Except I didn’t have a pixie cut. And I wasn’t harboring Satan’s spawn. “Hey,” I began, looking into his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…so pathetic since, like, the day we got married.” He smiled and took a swig of Dr Pepper. “You haven’t been pathetic,” he said. He was a terrible liar. “I haven’t?” I asked, incredulous, savoring the scrumptious red meat. “No,” he answered, taking another bite of steak and looking me squarely in the eye. “You haven’t.” I was feeling argumentative. “Have you forgotten about my inner ear disturbance, which caused me to vomit all across Australia?” He paused, then countered, “Have you forgotten about the car I rented us?” I laughed, then struck back. “Have you forgotten about the poisonous lobster I ordered us?” Then he pulled out all the stops. “Have you forgotten all the money we lost?” I refused to be thwarted. “Have you forgotten that I found out I was pregnant after we got back from our honeymoon and I called my parents to tell them and I didn’t get a chance because my mom left my dad and I went on to have a nervous breakdown and had morning sickness for six weeks and now my jeans don’t fit?” I was the clear winner here. “Have you forgotten that I got you pregnant?” he said, grinning. I smiled and took the last bite of my steak. Marlboro Man looked down at my plate. “Want some of mine?” he asked. He’d only eaten half of his. “Sure,” I said, ravenously and unabashedly sticking my fork into a big chuck of his rib eye. I was so grateful for so many things: Marlboro Man, his outward displays of love, the new life we shared together, the child growing inside my body. But at that moment, at that meal, I was so grateful to be a carnivore again.

Dr. Sheri Fink put it all together in Five Days at Memorial, a searing account of what happened when the backup generators failed, the water taps went dry, the

The blunderer who expects to receive a searing lash of someone's rage , but instead receives a breeze of their tranquilly is swamped immediately with unfathomable shame and misery.

There were nerve and brain pills, blood pills, liver pills and, the always disturbing, worm cakes. She took a pass on Dr. Rose’s French Arsenic wafers and Sears Roebuck’s Egyptian Pile Cure. Finally, she’d found a bottle of aspirin powder. Happily, it had done the trick. Bless you, Bayer.

In Dr. W.’s view, anxiety and panic symptoms serve as what he calls a “protective screen” (what Freud called a “neurotic defense”) against the searing pain associated with confronting loss or mortality or threats to one’s self-esteem (roughly what Freud called the ego). In some cases, the intense anxiety or panic symptoms patients experience are neurotic distractions from, or a way of coping with, negative self-images or feelings of inadequacy—what Dr. W. calls “self-wounds.” I find Dr.

I read every parenting book I could get my hands on. I lost myself in the extreme “attachment parenting” philosophy of Dr. Sears, who made me see mothers who put their babies down for five minutes or didn’t breastfeed their children until they were four as neglectful. It would be years before I realized that I was taking advice from an evangelical Christian who had eight children. There is no one more susceptible to overzealous parenting advice than a motherless mother.