Touch Deprivation Quotes

The brain-disease model overlooks four fundamental truths: (1) our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another. Restoring relationships and community is central to restoring well-being; (2) language gives us the power to change ourselves and others by communicating our experiences, helping us to define what we know, and finding a common sense of meaning; (3) we have the ability to regulate our own physiology, including some of the so-called involuntary functions of the body and brain, through such basic activities as breathing, moving, and touching; and (4) we can change social conditions to create environments in which children and adults can feel safe and where they can thrive. When we ignore these quintessential dimensions of humanity, we deprive people of ways to heal from trauma and restore their autonomy. Being a patient, rather than a participant in one’s healing process, separates suffering people from their community and alienates them from an inner sense of self.

The psyche cannot tolerate a vacuum of love. In the severely abused or deprived child, pain, dis-ease, and violance rush in to fill the void. In the average person in our culture, who has been only "normally" deprived of touch, anxiety and an insatiable hunger for posessions replace the missing eros. The child lacking a sense of welcome, joyous belonging, gratuitous security, will learn to hoard the limited supply of affection. According to the law of psychic compensation, not being held leads to holding on, grasping, addiction, posessiveness. Gradually, things replace people as a source of pleasure and security. When the gift of belonging with is denied, the child learns that love means belongin to. To the degree we are arrested at this stage of development, the needy child will dominate our motivations. Other people and things (and there is fundamentally no difference) will be seen as existing solely for the purpose of "my" survival and satisfaction. "Mine" will become the most important word.

In different degrees, in every part of the town, men and women had been yearning for a reunion, not of the same kind for all, but for all alike ruled out. Most of them had longed intensely for an absent one, for the warmth of a body, for love, or merely a life that habit had endeared. Some, often without knowing it, suffered from being deprived of the company of friends and from their inability to get in touch with them through the usual channels of friendship—letters, trains, and boats. Others, fewer these... had desired a reunion with something they couldn’t have defined, but which seemed to them the only desirable thing on earth. For want of a better name, they sometimes called it peace.

Can you really ask what reason Pythagoras had for abstaining from flesh? For my part I rather wonder both by what accident and in what state of soul or mind the first man did so, touched his mouth to gore and brought his lips to the flesh of a dead creature, he who set forth tables of dead, stale bodies and ventured to call food and nourishment the parts that had a little before bellowed and cried, moved and lived. How could his eyes endure the slaughter when throats were slit and hides flayed and limbs torn from limb? How could his nose endure the stench? How was it that the pollution did not turn away his taste, which made contact with the sores of others and sucked juices and serums from mortal wounds? … It is certainly not lions and wolves that we eat out of self-defense; on the contrary, we ignore these and slaughter harmless, tame creatures without stings or teeth to harm us, creatures that, I swear, Nature appears to have produced for the sake of their beauty and grace. But nothing abashed us, not the flower-like tinting of the flesh, not the persuasiveness of the harmonious voice, not the cleanliness of their habits or the unusual intelligence that may be found in the poor wretches. No, for the sake of a little flesh we deprive them of sun, of light, of the duration of life to which they are entitled by birth and being.

I think she's afraid to even hug me now. It's my fault, but I miss it, Andrew. I miss it so much it aches sometimes, you know?' I do know. I do know, I want to tell him, but I let him talk. And he does, with a gut-wrenching honesty that tears at my heart. 'I want to be held. Is that so wrong? I want to be held, and stroked. I want to know that someone loves me. I want to feel it on my skin.' He looks at the ceiling and exhales, then meets my eyes again. 'But nobody touches me anymore. Not even when I have a fever. Mom just hands me a thermometer now.' He drops his eyes and his ears redden. 'Even when you kiss me, you don't touch me. It's like I'm a leper or something. I can hardly keep my hands off of you, but it's not the same for you, is it?

There's no animal that sleep-deprives itself like the human.

I remembered the moment I read a novel for the first time. The texture of the soft paper touching my fingertips. The black letters blooming on a white field. The texture of the page I folded with my hands. 「 It isn’t important to read the letters. The important thing is where the letters lead you. 」 My mother, who loved books, used to say this. At least for me, it wasn’t just a saying. The gaps in the black print. My own little snow garden lay in between the letters. This space, which was too small for someone to go into, was a perfect place for a child who liked to hide. Every time a pleasant sound was heard, the letters stacked up like snow. In it, I became a hero. I had adventures, loved and dreamt. Thus, I read, read and read again. I remembered the first time I was about to finish a book. It was like being deprived of the world. The protagonist and supporting characters walked off with the sentence ‘They lived happily ever after’ and I was left alone at the end of the story. In my vanity and sense of betrayal, my young self struggled because I couldn’t stand the loneliness. 「This… is the end? 」 Perhaps it was similar to learning about death. For the first time, I realized that something was finite.

I was sure the old man knew nothing about the beatitudes, ecstasies, dazzling reverberations of sexual encounters. Cut out the poetry was his message. Clinical sex, deprived of all the warmth of love—the orchestration of all the senses, touch, hearing, sight, palate; all the euphoric accompaniments, back-ground music, moods, atmosphere, variations—forced him to resort to literary aphrodisiacs.

I, for my part, wonder of what sort of feeling, mind or reason that man was possessed who was first to pollute his mouth with gore, and to allow his lips to touch the flesh of a murdered being: who spread his table with the mangled forms of dead bodies, and claimed as daily food and dainty dishes what but now were beings endowed with movement, perception and with voice. …but for the sake of some little mouthful of flesh, we deprive a soul of the sun and light, and of that portion of life and time it had been born in to the world to enjoy.

To set out for rehearsals in that quivering quarter-hour is to engage conclusions, not beginnings, for one walks past the guilded hallucinations of poverty with a corrupt resignation touched by details, as if the destitute, in their orange-tinted back yards, under their dusty trees, or climbing into their favelas, were all natural scene designers and poverty were not a condition but an art. Deprivation is made lyrical, and twilight, with the patience of alchemy, almost transmutes despair into virtue. In the tropics nothing is lovelier than the allotments of the poor, no theater is as vivid, voluble, and cheap.

They both fought to catch their breath, though Megan's oxygen deprivation had nothing to do with the game. "You okay?" Finn asked. "Yeah, you?" she replied. Every inch of her body was throbbing to touch him again. "Yeah," he replied with a huge grin. He pushed himself around and got on all fours in front of her, pausing there with his face inches from hers. "I'm glad you stayed," he whispered, his breath warm on her face. Megan somehow managed to reply. "Me too." Then Finn pushed himself up and headed back toward the centre of the yard. For a moment, Megan couldn't move. Then Doug walked over and offered his arm. Megan grasped it thankfully and he yanked up to her shaky legs. "Who's all in a twist now?" he asked with a smirk. Megan laughed and shoved him from behind as they headed back to the line.

Some, often without knowing it, suffered from being deprived of the company of friends and from their inability to get in touch with them through the usual channels of friendship, letters, trains, and boats. Others, fewer these, Tarrou may have been one of them, had desired reunion with something they couldn't have defined, but which seemed to them the only desirable thing on earth. For want of a better name, they sometimes called it peace.

She slowly became convinced…that at the center of the universe not God but a tremendous deadness reigned. The stillness of a drunk God, passed out cold…She had learned of it in that house…where the drunks crashed…Things had happened to her there. She was neither raped nor robbed, nor did she experience God’s absence to any greater degree than other people did. She wasn’t threatened or made to harm anyone against her will. She wasn’t beaten, either, or deprived of speech or voice. It was, rather, the sad blubbering stories she heard in the house. Delphine witnessed awful things occurring to other humans. Worse than that, she was powerless to alter their fate. It would be that way all her life – disasters, falling like chairs all around her, falling so close they disarranged her hair, but not touching her.

There are billions of people in the world, yet you can feel infinitely alone if you’re deprived of the one who’s important to you.

The post-totalitarian system touches people at every step, but it does so with its ideological gloves on. This is why life in the system is so thoroughly permeated with hypocrisy and lies: government by bureaucracy is called popular government; the working class is enslaved in the name of the working class; the complete degradation of the individual is presented as his or her ultimate liberation; depriving people of information is called making it available; the use of power to manipulate is called the public control of power, and the arbitrary abuse of power is called observing the legal code; the repression of culture is called its development; the expansion of imperial influence is presented as support for the oppressed; the lack of free expression becomes the highest form of freedom; farcical elections become the highest form of democracy; banning independent thought becomes the most scientific of world views; military occupation becomes fraternal assistance. Because the regime is captive to its own lies, it must falsify everything. It falsifies the past. It falsifies the present, and it falsifies the future. It falsifies statistics. It pretends not to possess an omnipotent and unprincipled police apparatus. It pretends to respect human rights. It pretends to persecute no one. It pretends to fear nothing. It pretends to pretend nothing.

while the rest of the show continued, she made her round of the boxes. There, on request, she knelt before a man, unbuttoned his pants, took his penis in her jeweled hands, and with a neatness of touch, an expertness, a subtlety few women had ever developed, sucked at it until he was satisfied. Her two hands were as active as her mouth. The titillation almost deprived each man of his senses. The elasticity of her hands; the variety of rhythms; the change from a hand grip of the entire penis to the lightest touch of the tip of it,

The systems we will be exploring in order are: ● Breeding Targets: Arousal patterns tied to systems meant to get our ancestors to have sex with things that might bear offspring (e.g., arousal from things like penises, the female form, etc.). ● Inverse Systems: Arousal patterns that arise from a neural mix-up, causing something that disgusts the majority of the population to arouse a small portion of it (e.g., arousal from things like being farted on, dead bodies, having insects poured on one’s face, etc.). ● Emotional States and Concepts / Dominance and Submission: Arousal patterns that stem from either emotional concepts (such as betrayal, transformation, being eaten, etc.) or dominance and submission pathways. ● Emotional Connections to People: While emotional connections do not cause arousal in and of themselves, they do lower the threshold for arousal (i.e., you may become more aroused by a moderately attractive person you love than a very attractive stranger). ● Trope Attraction: Arousal patterns that are enhanced through a target’s adherence to a specific trope (a nurse, a goth person, a cheerleader, etc.). ● Novelty: Arousal patterns tied to the novelty of a particular stimulus. ● Pain and Asphyxiation: Arousal patterns associated with or enhanced by pain and oxygen deprivation. ● Basic Instincts: Remnants of our pre-cognitive mating instincts running off of a “deeper” autopilot-like neurological system (dry humping, etc.) that compel mating behavior without necessarily generating a traditional feeling of arousal. ● Physical Stimuli: Arousal patterns derived from physical interaction (kissing, touching an erogenous zone, etc.). ● Conditioned Responses: Arousal patterns resulting from conditioning (arousal from shoes, doorknobs, etc.).

The thirst we shared for one another made it clear that the distraction would only come from deprivation. Charlotte was always on my mind. In my dreams, her name balancing fatally on my lips at all times, the scent of her drove me on through my everyday tasks. It was in denying myself of her soft skin and intoxicating presence that I truly began to lose touch.

All the strength I had gathered as a woman, mother, and lover wilted, instantly and completely. It was like being flung onto jagged rocks at low tide, belly up at high noon on the longest, hottest day of the longest year of your life. There seemed no bottom to my grief, no way out, just through. Through darkness, isolation, and the deprivation of his touch.

We take the staples of modern life so much for granted until we’re deprived of them. People do live quite well without what we consider to be basics, but they manage because they’ve never been de-skilled by their presence. To lose them when you’ve lived all your life with power at the touch of a switch and water at the turn of a tap is shocking, then unsettling, then grindingly depressing.

Science has robbed the sun and moon of magic, leaving a spotted ball of gasses and a dead crater-pocked world in place of gold god and silver queen: a poor trade. Worse, men and women no longer live by intuition, but by ideas. The chittering dictums of the head and the will block out the spontaneous voices of the blood and the impulse. . . . Deprived of the rhythm of savage song, the meaning of the animal yell, we exist for the mechanical screak of steel on steel . . . . We must get back “in touch.

The guillotine takes life almost without touching the body, just as prison deprives of liberty or a fine reduces wealth.

we are tempted to erase the unsettling elements of the other's alterity-the ways in which the other does not coincide with our fantasies-because we imagine that, by so doing, we manage to stabilize our lives. Rather than allowing ourselves to be surprised by the other, rather than allowing the other to touch us in unforeseen and potentially enlivening ways, we resort to idealizations that seem to guarantee the reliability of our life-worlds. In this manner, we deprive ourselves of the kinds of transformations that can only ensue from a courageous encounter with the other's irreducible alterity.

Her kiss is hungry, as if long deprived. As if they didn’t already spend the morning doing just exactly this, making up for the lost time they were apart. Triton’s trident, I could do this all day. Then he catches himself. No, I couldn’t. Not without wanting more. Which is why we need to stop. Instead, he entwines his hands in her hair, and she teases his lips with her tongue, trying to get him to fully open his mouth to her. He gladly complies. Her fingers sneak their way under his shirt, up his stomach, sending a trail of fire to his chest. He is about to lose his shirt altogether. Until Antonis’s voice booms from the doorway. “Extract yourself from Prince Galen, Emma,” he says. “You two are not mated. This behavior is inappropriate for any Syrena, let alone a Royal.” Emma’s eyes go round as sand dollars. He can tell she’s not sure what to think about her grandfather telling her what to do. Or maybe she’s caught off guard that he called her a Royal. Either way, like most people, Emma decides to obey. Galen does, too. They stand up side by side, not daring to be close enough to touch. They behold King Antonis in a polka-dot bathrobe, and though he’s the one who looks silly, they are the ones who look shamed. Galen feels like a fingerling again. “I apologize, Highness,” he says. It seems like all he does lately is apologize to the Poseidon king. “It was my fault.” Antonis gives him a reproving look. “I like you, young prince. But you well know the law. Do not disappoint me, Galen. My granddaughter is deserving of a proper mating ceremony.” Galen can’t meet his eyes. He’s right. I shouldn’t be flirting with temptation like this. With the Archives on their way-or possibly here already-there is a distant but small chance that he and Emma can still live within the confines of the law. That they can still live as mates under the Syrena tradition. And he almost just blew it. What if it had gone too far? Then his mating with Emma would forever be blemished by breaking the law. “It won’t happen again, Highness.” Not until we’re mated, anyway. “Um. Did you just promise not to kiss me ever again?” Emma whispers. “Can we talk about this later? The Archives are obviously here, angelfish.” She’s on the verge of a fit, he can tell. “He’s just looking out for us,” Galen says quickly. “I agree, we need to respect the law-“ At this her fit subsides as if it was never there. She smiles wide at him. He can’t decide if it’s genuine, or if it’s the kind of smile she gives him when he’ll pay for something later. “Okay, Galen.” “Galen, Emma,” Nalia calls from the dining room, saving him from making a fool of himself. “Everyone is here.” Emma gives him a look that clearly says, “We’re so not done with this conversation.” Then she turns and walks away. Galen takes a second to regain a little bit of composure-which kissing Emma tends to steal from him. Then there’s the mortification of being interrupted by-Get it together, idiot.

Over a decade prior, horrific cancer had deprived the world of an angel. My mother’s death had come quickly and unexpectedly. There was nothing that could be done to save her. She was admitted to the hospital, and a week later, she was gone, stolen from her beloved family and friends by the cells of her own body. Cells that had morphed from friend to mutant foe. Cells that, without remorse, mustered into a rogue army that cared nothing about extinguishing one of humanity’s true lights of kindness, compassion, and love. Malfunctions of biology and physiology had left only wonderful memories as well as the persistence of beauty in the lives she had touched.

But now the rest of the adjoining cotters rose in a body, and insisted on turning me out. Is it not strange, Sir, that this most horrible of all pestilences should deprive others, not only of natural feeling, but of reason? I could make no resistance although they had flung me over the dunghill, as they threatened to do; but the two women acted with great decision, and dared them to touch me or any one in their house.

Infants deprived of touching fail to thrive and grow, even if they get proper food, nourishment and protection. Touching is most powerful by appropriate skin to skin contact. Experiments with rabbits fed atherosclerosis inducing diets show that those rabbits which are held and petted by the laboratory workers tend not to get atherosclerosis (hardening of the arteries). Those rabbits which are not held and petted tend to get atherosclerosis (Dossey 1985).

Just as the animal is more noble than the vegetable and mineral so man is superior to the animal. The animal is bereft of ideality; that is to say, it is a captive of the world of nature and not in touch with that which lies within and beyond nature; it is without spiritual susceptibilities, deprived of the attractions of consciousness, unconscious of the world of God and incapable of deviating from the law of nature. It is different with man. Man is possessed of the emanations of consciousness; he has perception, ideality and capable of discovering the mysteries of the universe.

While I was under these influences of sorrow for him, came notice to me that the next sessions there would be a bill preferred to the grand jury against me, and that I should be tried for my life. My temper was touched before, the wretched boldness of spirit which I had acquired abated, and conscious guilt began to flow in my mind. In short, I began to think, and to think indeed is one real advance from hell to heaven. All that hardened state and temper of soul, which I said so much of before, is but a deprivation of thought; he that is restored to his thinking, is restored to himself.

Children are such tactile beings. They live so fully by their senses that if they see something, they will also want to touch it, smell it, possibly eat it, maybe throw it, feel what it feels like on their heads, listen to it, sort it, and probably submerge it in water. This is entirely natural. Strap on their pith helmets; they’re exploring the world. But imagine the sensory overload that can happen for a child when every surface, every drawer and closet is filled with stuff? So many choices and so much stimuli rob them of time and attention. Too much stuff deprives kids of leisure, and the ability to explore their worlds deeply.

The Soviet Union in American accounts tends to be a deprived, and depraved, hell, but there was also much that was sweet, and sheltered, about it, and this book’s portrayal of that country touches the bone for an exile. So does the novel’s evocation of that subtle Soviet sense of living with eyes and ears everywhere; of how sinners find crumbs even at a table set for the new saints of socialism; and of the integrity that survives, miraculously, even in such circumstances. So that the Muscovites mocked in the early part of the book receive, as well, a kind of hidden sympathy. No human being deserves the trauma of a life in a place like the USSR, and that person’s ultimate judgment must take that into account.

SOME People are subject to a certain delicacy of passion,1 which makes them extremely sensible to all the accidents of life, and gives them a lively joy upon every prosperous event, as well as a piercing grief, when they meet with misfortunes and adversity. Favours and good offices° easily engage their friendship; while the smallest injury provokes their resentment. Any honour or mark of distinction elevates them above measure; but they are as sensibly touched with contempt.° People of this character have, no doubt, more lively enjoyments, as well as more pungent° sorrows, than men of cool and sedate tempers: But, I believe, when every thing is balanced, there is no one, who would not rather be of the latter character, were he entirely master of his own disposition. Good or ill fortune is very little at our disposal: And when a person, that has this sensibility° of temper, meets with any misfortune, his sorrow or resentment takes entire possession of him, and deprives him of all relish in the common occurrences of life; the right enjoyment of which forms the chief part of our happiness. Great pleasures are much less frequent than great pains; so that a sensible temper must meet with fewer trials in the former way than in the latter. Not to mention, that men of such lively passions are apt to be transported beyond all bounds of prudence and discretion, and to take false steps in the conduct of life, which are often irretrievable. There

Fifteen years ago, a business manager from the United States came to Plum Village to visit me. His conscience was troubled because he was the head of a firm that designed atomic bombs. I listened as he expressed his concerns. I knew if I advised him to quit his job, another person would only replace him. If he were to quit, he might help himself, but he would not help his company, society, or country. I urged him to remain the director of his firm, to bring mindfulness into his daily work, and to use his position to communicate his concerns and doubts about the production of atomic bombs. In the Sutra on Happiness, the Buddha says it is great fortune to have an occupation that allows us to be happy, to help others, and to generate compassion and understanding in this world. Those in the helping professions have occupations that give them this wonderful opportunity. Yet many social workers, physicians, and therapists work in a way that does not cultivate their compassion, instead doing their job only to earn money. If the bomb designer practises and does his work with mindfulness, his job can still nourish his compassion and in some way allow him to help others. He can still influence his government and fellow citizens by bringing greater awareness to the situation. He can give the whole nation an opportunity to question the necessity of bomb production. Many people who are wealthy, powerful, and important in business, politics, and entertainment are not happy. They are seeking empty things - wealth, fame, power, sex - and in the process they are destroying themselves and those around them. In Plum Village, we have organised retreats for businesspeople. We see that they have many problems and suffer just as others do, sometimes even more. We see that their wealth allows them to live in comfortable conditions, yet they still suffer a great deal. Some businesspeople, even those who have persuaded themselves that their work is very important, feel empty in their occupation. They provide employment to many people in their factories, newspapers, insurance firms, and supermarket chains, yet their financial success is an empty happiness because it is not motivated by understanding or compassion. Caught up in their small world of profit and loss, they are unaware of the suffering and poverty in the world. When we are not int ouch with this larger reality, we will lack the compassion we need to nourish and guide us to happiness. Once you begin to realise your interconnectedness with others, your interbeing, you begin to see how your actions affect you and all other life. You begin to question your way of living, to look with new eyes at the quality of your relationships and the way you work. You begin to see, 'I have to earn a living, yes, but I want to earn a living mindfully. I want to try to select a vocation not harmful to others and to the natural world, one that does not misuse resources.' Entire companies can also adopt this way of thinking. Companies have the right to pursue economic growth, but not at the expense of other life. They should respect the life and integrity of people, animals, plants and minerals. Do not invest your time or money in companies that deprive others of their lives, that operate in a way that exploits people or animals, and destroys nature. Businesspeople who visit Plum Village often find that getting in touch with the suffering of others and cultivating understanding brings them happiness. They practise like Anathapindika, a successful businessman who lived at the time of the Buddha, who with the practise of mindfulness throughout his life did everything he could to help the poor and sick people in his homeland.

He was aware of his trauma, but he was using it to distance himself from life. He had a story about himself but no access to who he might have been before his trauma derailed him. I was trying to use his feelings of deprivation as a means of bringing him back in touch with a more fundamental truth about himself, to guide him back toward—or at least help him to visualize—the intrinsic relational foundation of his being. By not fighting with his internal wounds, by not insisting on making them go away, by not recruiting everyone in his intimate life to save him from his feelings of abandonment, by simply resting with them the way we do in meditation, he could learn, as the Buddha did, that he already was the love he thought he lacked.

I don’t understand it,” Hans Castorp said. “I never can understand how anybody can not smoke—it deprives a man of the best part of life, so to speak—or at least of a first-class pleasure. When I wake in the morning, I feel glad at the thought of being able to smoke all day, and when I eat, I look forward to smoking afterwards; I might almost say I only eat for the sake of being able to smoke—though of course that is more or less of an exaggeration. But a day without tobacco would be flat, stale, and unprofitable, as far as I am concerned. If I had to say to myself to-morrow: ‘No smoke to-day’—I believe I shouldn’t find the courage to get up—on my honour, I’d stop in bed. But when a man has a good cigar in his mouth—of course it mustn’t have a side draught or not draw well, that is extremely irritating—but with a good cigar in his mouth a man is perfectly safe, nothing can touch him—literally. It’s just like lying on the beach: when you lie on the beach, why, you lie on the beach, don’t you?—you don’t require anything else, in the line of work or amusement either.—People smoke all over the world, thank goodness; there is nowhere one could get to, so far as I know, where the habit hasn’t penetrated. Even polar expeditions fit themselves out with supplies of tobacco to help them carry on. I’ve always felt a thrill of sympathy when I read that. You can be very miserable: I might be feeling perfectly wretched, for instance; but I could always stand it if I had my smoke.

When electronic communication networks enter the habitat of the individual consumer they are equipped from the start with a safety device: the possibility of instant, trouble-free and (hopefully) painless disconnection — of cutting off communication in a way that would leave parts of the network unattended and deprive them of relevance, together with their power to be a nuisance. It is that safety device, and not the facility of getting in touch, let alone of staying together permanently, that endears the electronic substitute for face-to-face socializing to men and women trained to operate in a market-mediated world. In such a world, it is the act of getting rid of the unwanted, much more than the act of getting hold of the desired, that is the meaning of individual freedom.

Is this then a touch? . . . . quivering me to a new identity, Flames and ether making a rush for my veins, Treacherous tip of me reaching and crowding to help them, My flesh and blood playing out lightning, to strike what is hardly different from myself, On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs, Straining the udder of my heart for its withheld drip, Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial, Depriving me of my best as for a purpose, Unbuttoning my clothes and holding me by the bare waist, Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture fields, Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away, They bribed to swap off with touch, and go and graze at the edges of me, No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or mu anger, Fetching the rest of the herd around to enjoy them awhile, Then all uniting to stand of a headland and worry me.

You, er..." He hesitated. "Not that I mind, but you may want to fix your frock." She glanced downward. Seeing her exposed breast, she quickly tucked it back in her stays. "See what I mean? Heaps of humiliations. Heaps." Gabe wondered if the past quarter hour went into her heaps of humiliations, or whether she regarded it as something else. He wondered, but he wasn't going to ask. On his part, he wouldn't be filing this memory under the heading of "Humiliations." Oh, no. It was going straight into the stash of "Fantasies" that every man kept under his mattress, figuratively if not literally. He was never going to forget the taste of her, pure and sweet. The way her skin moved liked satin under his hands, warming to his touch. And the way she'd responded to him? That was already etched on his brain. I think it's the urges, she'd said. The worrisome part of it was, their urges had gone unsatisfied. They would remain so, he told himself. This afternoon had been a mistake. An enjoyable mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Time to revive his judgement. Gabe could survive deprivation of all sorts, including this one. He would not put his hands on Lady Penelope Campion again. Absolutely not. Definitely not. Probably not. Damn.

The post-totalitarian system touches people at every step, but it does so with its ideological gloves on. This is why life in the system is so thoroughly permeated with hypocrisy and lies: government by bureaucracy is called popular government; the working class is enslaved in the name of the working class; the complete degradation of the individual is presented as his or her ultimate liberation; depriving people of information is called making it available; the use of power to manipulate is called the public control of power, and the arbitrary abuse of power is called observing the legal code; the repression of culture is called its development; the expansion of imperial influence is presented as support for the oppressed; the lack of free expression becomes the highest form of freedom; farcical elections become the highest form of democracy; banning independent thought becomes the most scientific of world views; military occupation becomes fraternal assistance. Because the regime is captive to its own lies, it must falsify everything. It falsifies the past. It falsifies the present, and it falsifies the future. It falsifies statistics. It pretends not to possess an omnipotent and unprincipled police apparatus. It pretends to respect human rights. It pretends to persecute no one. It pretends to fear nothing. It pretends to pretend nothing. Individuals need not believe all these mystifications, but they must behave as though they did, or they must at least tolerate them in silence, or get along well with those who work with them. For this reason, however, they must live within a lie. They need not accept the lie. It is enough for them to have accepted their life with it and in it. For by this very fact, individuals confirm the system, fulfil the system, make the system, are the system.

The difference between passion and addiction is that between a divine spark and a flame that incinerates. Passion is divine fire: it enlivens and makes holy; it gives light and yields inspiration. Passion is generous because it’s not ego-driven; addiction is self-centred. Passion gives and enriches; addiction is a thief. Passion is a source of truth and enlightenment; addictive behaviours lead you into darkness. You’re more alive when you are passionate, and you triumph whether or not you attain your goal. But an addiction requires a specific outcome that feeds the ego; without that outcome, the ego feels empty and deprived. A consuming passion that you are helpless to resist, no matter what the consequences, is an addiction. You may even devote your entire life to a passion, but if it’s truly a passion and not an addiction, you’ll do so with freedom, joy and a full assertion of your truest self and values. In addiction, there’s no joy, freedom or assertion. The addict lurks shame-faced in the shadowy corners of her own existence. I glimpse shame in the eyes of my addicted patients in the Downtown Eastside and, in their shame, I see mirrored my own. Addiction is passion’s dark simulacrum and, to the naïve observer, its perfect mimic. It resembles passion in its urgency and in the promise of fulfillment, but its gifts are illusory. It’s a black hole. The more you offer it, the more it demands. Unlike passion, its alchemy does not create new elements from old. It only degrades what it touches and turns it into something less, something cheaper. Am I happier after one of my self-indulgent sprees? Like a miser, in my mind I recount and catalogue my recent purchases — a furtive Scrooge, hunched over and rubbing his hands together with acquisitive glee, his heart growing ever colder. In the wake of a buying binge, I am not a satisfied man. Addiction is centrifugal. It sucks energy from you, creating a vacuum of inertia. A passion energizes you and enriches your relationships. It empowers you and gives strength to others. Passion creates; addiction consumes — first the self and then the others within its orbit.

He dragged her to him, and she, being equally focused on attaching her mouth to his, lost her balance. Stepping in for the save, he held her up against the doorjamb with his hard body, mouth rasping hers, tongue deep enough to touch her soul. Could be oxygen deprivation, but she saw stars behind her closed lids.

My good heart and empathetic personality were assumed by many as a weakness. I was unwarily and widely opening doors to my sponge-like heart for people with a strict intent to take advantage of me. I was considered naive and gullible. My charitable practices caused me more pains and heartaches than a long expected feeling of joy, fulfillment, and satisfaction. Dealing with constant depreciation, disrespect, and in few cases even abused, I was being left feeling wronged and victimized. Such treatment sent me into a low-vibration state of mind and ever since I have been attracting and letting all the wrong and toxic people in to my life. In the effect, inadvertently and totally unconsciously, I neglected and deprived myself from having what I deserved best: - true and unconditional love, respect and gratitude. By constantly placing me at "second place”, I depleted myself from positive energy, neglected my own life; its desires, needs, and ended up running on empty. I started losing touch with my own creative inspiration, and my artistic originality suffered a great deal. I started noticing that I was left with no fuel to properly nourish my own body, soul and mind. It is time for me to take charge of my life, place myself first before anyone else, let go of all the “wolfs in sheep’s garment”, and rebuild my dwindling self-esteem. It is time for me to heal and rebuild my essence, give myself proper love, balanced nutrition and attention, and feel again that strong desire to live my life to the fullest. It is time for me to reconstitute, refocus and re-center in order to achieve a blissful feeling of inner peace. I understand that this new development may disappoint some of my "friends" and associates who are used to my giving nature. They will have to accept my transformation given that I cannot go on with my life running on empty, especially since most of my actions remain usually non-reciprocated. It is time for Alex to finally be able to distinguish between those that are really in need and those that are just pure pococurante parasites or scavengers, always expecting of me to cater to their every single need. It is time for me to say "no" to those who under false pretenses entered my sensitive and charitable heart only to take advantage of it and who are always taking but never giving.

But, just in case she’s suspicious, we’ll have to step it up.” Step it up? If they stepped it up any more, his balls were going to explode. “What do you mean by that, exactly?” “I don’t know. Maybe…more touching or something?” “No.” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but he meant it. He couldn’t take any more touching. “I mean, I don’t think that’s the problem.” Actually, touching was exactly the problem, but not in the way she was thinking. He was horny, plain and simple, and the constant touching and looking and pretending was killing him. Slowly and seemingly without end. The nights were the worst. Emma was a restless sleeper and he was a light sleeper and the combination made for a constant state of low-grade sleep deprivation. The sight of her dark curls spread across her pillow and her long legs kicked free of the blanket made for a constant state of high-grade lust.

Speaking of those children...."  He tried to turn his head within the curve of Juliet's arm so that he could look at Charlotte. "It appears that one of them ... is yours." "Yes, my daughter. She's just over six months." "Will you lift her up so I may see her? I adore children." Juliet hesitated, thinking that sleeping babes were best left alone. But it was not in her to deny the wishes of a man who might very well be dying. Carefully, she picked up the infant and held her so that Gareth could see her. Charlotte whimpered and opened her eyes. Immediately, the lines of pain about Gareth's mouth relaxed. Smiling weakly, he reached up and ran his fingers over one of the tiny fists, unaware that he was touching his own niece. A lump rose in Juliet's throat. It was not hard at all to imagine that he was Charles, reaching up to touch his daughter. Not hard at all. "You're just ... as pretty as your mama," he murmured. "A few more years ... and all the young bucks shall be after you ... like hounds to the fox."  To Juliet he said, "What is her name?" "Charlotte."  The baby was wide awake now and tugging at the lace of his sleeve. "Charlotte. Such a pretty name ... and where is your papa, little Charlie-girl? Should he ... not be here to ... protect you and your mama?" Juliet stiffened. His innocent words had slammed a fresh bolt of pain through her. Tight-lipped, she pried the lace from Charlotte's fist and cradled her close. Deprived of her amusement, the baby screwed up her face and began to wail at the top of her lungs while Juliet stared out the window, her mouth set and her hand clenched in a desperate bid to control her emotions. Gareth managed to make himself heard over Charlotte's angry screams. "I am sorry. I think I have offended you, somehow...." "No." "Then what is it?" "Her papa's dead." "Oh. I, ah ... I see."  He looked distressed, and remorse stole the brightness that Charlotte had brought to his eyes. "I am sorry, madam. I am forever saying the wrong thing, I fear." Charlotte was now crying harder, beating her fists and kicking her feet in protest. The blanket fell away. Juliet attempted to put it back. Charlotte screamed louder, her angry squalls filling the coach until Juliet felt like crying herself. She made a noise of helpless despair. "Here ... set her on your lap, beside my head," Lord Gareth said at last. "She can play with my cravat." "No, you're hurt." He smiled. "And your daughter is crying. Oblige me, and she will stop."  He stretched a hand toward the baby, offering his fingers, but she batted him away and continued to wail. "I'm told I have a way ... with children." With a sigh, Juliet did as he asked. Immediately, Charlotte quieted and fell to playing with his cravat.

petting.” This powerful finding has been rediscovered over and over, most recently in the early 1990s in Romania, where thousands of warehoused infants went without touch for sometimes years at a time. PET studies (similar to SPECT studies) of a number of these deprived infants have shown marked overall decreased activity across the whole brain. Bonding is a two-way street. A naturally unresponsive baby may inadvertently receive less love from its parents. The mother and father, misreading their baby’s naturally reserved behavior, may feel hurt and rejected and therefore less encouraged to lavish care and affection on their child. A classic example of this problem is illustrated by autistic children. Psychiatrists used to label the mothers of autistic children “cold” they believed the mother’s lack of responsiveness caused the autism. In recent times, however, it has been shown in numerous research studies that autism is biological and preceded any

So much that it seems consistent only for porosity37—seen as a kind of productive fragility that overcomes rigid dualisms—to be the key concept by which the nature of the city is revealed and interpreted in all its profundity. Porosity is the principle of the true life of Naples: At the base of the cliff itself, where it touches the shore, caves have been hewn. As in the paintings of hermits from the Trecento, a door appears here and there in the cliffs. If it is open, one looks into large cellars that are at once sleeping places and storerooms. Steps also lead to the sea, to fishermen’s taverns that have been installed in natural grottoes. Faint light and thin music rise up from there in the evening. As porous as those stones is the architecture. Buildings and action merge in courtyards, arcades, and staircases. The space is preserved to act as a stage for new and unforeseen configurations. What is avoided is the definitive, the fully formed. No situation appears as it is, intended forever, no form asserts its “thus and not otherwise.” . . . Because nothing is finished and concluded. Porosity results not only from the indolence of the southern craftsman but above all from the passion for improvisation. For that space and opportunity must be preserved at all costs. Buildings are used as a popular stage. They are divided into innumerable theaters, animated simultaneously. All share innumerable stages, brought to life simultaneously. Balcony, forecourt, window, gateway, staircase, roof are at once stage and theater box. Even the most miserable wretch is sovereign in his dim, twofold awareness of contributing, however deprived he may be, to one of the images of the Neapolitan street that will never return and, in his poverty, the leisure of enjoying the grand panorama. What is played out on the stairs is the highest school in theatrical direction. The stairs, never entirely revealed, but closed off in the dull northern house-

Especially for women, it’s appealing and inspirational to hear a clarion voice calling for our right to self-actualization, given the millennia of female oppression. Until shockingly recently, and even still today, the relation of the sexes has reliably meant the silencing of female identity, desire, and goals. Even in the precincts of enlightenment and privilege, women often feel that we’ve handed over our entire minds to caring for others. We understandably feel put-upon, deprived, and resentful. Scholars provide ample evidence of the costs of workplace bias, and the corrosive effects on relationships of gendered divisions of labor. Getting in touch with our anger is a first step to positive change. But our challenge is to work toward solving the problems in the actual relationships in front of us. We reclaim genuine space for our identities not by rushing headlong into simplistic remedies, but by engaging in the less glamorous spadework of paying attention to our feelings, clarifying what matters to us, asserting our point of view, and negotiating for change. There

Interestingly, participants in the above studies do not perceive themselves as applying less effort to the work challenge, or being less effective, when they were sleep-deprived, despite both being true. They seemed unaware of their poorer work effort and performance—a theme of subjective misperception of ability when sleep-deprived that we have touched upon previously in this book.

At the Laboratory of Cognitive Neuroscience in Lausanne, Switzerland, scientists have been studying the link between mystical experiences and cognitive neuroscience. They point out that the fundamental revelations to the founders of the three monotheistic religions—Moses, Jesus, and Mohammed—occurred on mountains, and included such components as feeling a presence, seeing a figure, hearing voices, and seeing lights. These similarities of experience suggest to the scientists that exposure to altitude might affect functions relying on brain areas such as the temporoparietal junction and the prefrontal cortex. Prolonged stays at high altitude, especially when linked to social deprivation, can lead to prefrontal lobe dysfunctions, which are commonly found during ecstatic experiences. Also, the physical and emotional stresses of climbing at altitude release endorphins, which are known to lower the threshold for temporal lobe epilepsy, which in turn might evoke such experiences. All such phenomena, then, might relate to “abnormal body processing.

The inner qualities of the woman‘s heart, result in an important byproduct, which may be called „charm“. This charm like light, is a force. Intangible, imponderable though it be, the strivings of our intellect may not attain fruition if deprived of its life-giving touch. The nourishment which the tree draws though its root may be classified and measured, - not so the vitality which is the gift of the sunlight, and without which its functioning becomes altogether impossible. This ineffable emanation of woman‘s nature has, from the first, played its part in the creation of man, unobtrusively but inevitably Had man‘s mind not been energised by the inner working of woman‘s vital charm, he would never have attained his successes. Of all the higher achievements of civilization - the devotion of the toiler, the valour of the brave, the creations of the artist – the secret spring is to be found in woman‘s influence. In the clash and battle of primitive civilization, the action of woman‘s shakti is not clearly manifest; but, as civilization becomes spiritual in the course of its development, and the union of man with man is acknowledged to be more important than the differences between them, the charm of woman gets the opportunity to become the predominant factor. Such spiritual civilization can only be upheld if the emotion of woman and the intellect of man are contributed in usual shares for its purposes. Then their respective contributions may combine gloriously in ever-frsh creations, and their difference will no longer make for inequality. Woman, let me repeat, has two aspects, - in one she is the Mother, in the other, the Beloved. I have already spoken of the spiritual endeavour that characterises the first, viz., the striving, not merely for giving birth to her child, but for creating the best possible child – not as an addition to the number of men, but as one of the heroic souls who may win the victory of man‘s eternal fight against evil in his social life and natural surroundings. As the Beloved, it is woman‘s part to infuse life into all aspirations of man; and the spiritual power that enables her to do so I have called charm, and was known in India by the name shakti. There is a poem called Ananda lahari  (The stream of Delight), attributed to Shankaracharya. She who is glorified therein is the Shakti in the heart of the Universe; the Giver of Joy, the Inspirer of Activity. On the one hand, we know and use the world; on the other we are related to it by tie of disinterested joy. We can know the world because it is a manifestation of Truth: we rejoice in it because it is an expression of Joy. „Who would have striven for life“ says the Rishi, „if this ananda had not filled the sky?“ It seems to me that the „Intellectual Beauty“, whose praises Shelley has sung, is identical with this Ananda. And it is this ananda which the poet of Ananda lahari has visualised as the woman; that is to say, in his view, this Universal Shakti is manifest in human society in the nature of Woman. In this manifestation is her charm. Let no one confuse this shakti with mere „sweetness“, for in this charm there is a combination of several qualities – patience, self-abnegation- sensitive intelligence, grace in thought, word and behaviour – the reticent expression of rhythmic life, the tendernes and terribleness of love; at its core, moreover, is that self-radiant Spirit of Delight which ever gives itself up. This shakti, this joy-giving power of woman as the Beloved, has up to now largely been dissipated by the greed of man, who has sought to use it for the purposes of his individual enjoyment, corrupting it, confining it, like his property, within jealously-guarded limits. That has also obstructed for woman herself her inward realization of the full glory of her own shakti. Her personality has been insulted at every turn by being made to display its power of delectation within a circumsribed arena.

Kevin?” Everyone at the table became startled when Kevin stood up and rushed over to where Iris was glaring daggers at Chris. “I think I’m talking to a ragged, beaten up dog who doesn’t know his place.” “Fucking fox!” Chris raised his clenched right fist, prepared to deliver a savage punch to the pretty female. Before he could, Kevin leapt into the air, his body spinning like a top. “Don’t-touch-my-girlfriend’s-sister Screwdriver!” “What the—GUAG!” Spittle flew from Chris’s mouth as Kevin planted his feet into the inu’s gut, knocking all of the air from the boy’s lungs in one fell swoop. He bent his knees, absorbing the shock of impact, his body parallel with the ground. Kevin then used his impressive leg muscles to push off Chris’s body, launching the inu several feet back where he crashed into a garbage can. For all of one second, time stood still. For all of one second, everyone stared at Kevin in awe. For all of one second, Kevin felt like the most awesome person in the world. Then the second was over. And Kevin landed on his back. On the concrete. Hard. As Kevin’s lungs were deprived of oxygen and his vision exploded with white while pain overloaded his photo-optic receptors, Iris knelt beside his head. “Feeling manly now?” She asked, her lips stretching from ear to ear in a wide grin. Kevin raised a shaky arm and gave Iris a thumbs up. ***

The brain-disease model overlooks four fundamental truths: (1) our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another. Restoring relationships and community is central to restoring well-being; (2) language gives us the power to change ourselves and others by communicating our experiences, helping us to define what we know, and finding a common sense of meaning; (3) we have the ability to regulate our own physiology, including some of the so-called involuntary functions of the body and brain, through such basic activities as breathing, moving, and touching; and (4) we can change social conditions to create environments in which children and adults can feel safe and where they can thrive. When we ignore these quintessential dimensions of humanity, we deprive people of ways to heal from trauma and restore their autonomy.

People tell you the computer is just a handier, more complex kind of typewriter. But that isn't true. The typewriter is an entirely external object. The page floats free, and so do I. I have a physical relation to writing. I touch the blank or written page with my eyes - something I cannot do with the screen. The computer is a prosthesis. I have a tactile, intersensory relation to it. I become, myself, an ectoplasm of the screen. And this, no doubt, explains, in this incubation of the virtual image and the brain, the malfunctions which afflict computers, and which are like the failings of one's own body. On the other hand, the fact that priority belongs to the network and not to individuals implies the possibility of hiding, of disappearing into the intangible space of the Virtual, so that you cannot be pinned down anywhere, which resolves all problems of identity, not to mention those of alterity. So, the attraction of all these virtual machines no doubt derives not so much from the thirst for information and knowledge as from the desire to disappear, and the possibility of dissolving oneself into a phantom conviviality. A kind of 'high' that takes the place of happiness. But virtuality comes close to happiness only because it surreptitiously removes all reference from it. It gives you everything, but it subtly deprives you of everything at the same time. The subject is, in a sense, realized to perfection, but when realized to perfection, it automatically becomes object, and panic sets in.

I have heard politicians like John Major in the U.K. and his counterparts in the U.S. say that what we need to do to solve the problem of crime and violence is to teach criminals to learn the different between right and wrong. In other words, we need to teach them to recognize the difference between justice and injustice, and to pursue the former and eschew the latter. But what the politicians who mouth these sentiments do not realize is that the violent criminals are perfectly aware of the difference between right and wrong. They realize that they have been victims of injustice (most of all, from those who preach to them most loudly about it), and they commit their crimes in order to achieve some measure of justice, by taking something back from a society that has subjected them to a degree of deprivation to which it does not subject others. For example, how can we, as a society, say that we have something to teach about justice, when we permit the perpetuation of an economic system in which some people inherit millions of pounds while most people inherit nothing? How can we speak of equality of opportunity under those conditions? Violent criminals are not violent because they are dumb, out of touch with reality, or unable to recognize hypocrisy, dishonesty, and injustice when they see it. They are violent precisely because they are aware of the hypocrisy, dishonesty, and injustice that surrounds them and of which they have been the victims. That does not mean that they respond to those conditions in a rational or just way, or that we should tolerate and permit their violence — which affects their fellow victims much more often than it does their oppressors. But it does mean that we cannot expect to stop the kind of violence that we call crime until we stop the kind of violence that I have called structural in "Structural Violence" (1999). By this I mean the deaths and disabilities that are caused by the economic structure of our society, its division into rich and poor. Structural violence is not only the main form of violence, in the sense that poverty kills far more people (almost all of them very poor) than all the behavioral violence put together, it is also the main cause of violent behavior. Eliminating structural violence means eliminating relative poverty.

For me, radio was a space for reflection. On the air, I submerged myself in music and literature. I listened along with my audience; I read to myself and to them, I discussed all kinds of ideas with total strangers. It was the perfect medium: intense, warm, interactive, and highly volatile. From my very first session in the broadcast studio, I felt like I was in a time capsule, a sensory-deprivation chamber. It was a protective bubble where nothing and no one could touch me. The semidarkness, the illuminated panel, and the on-air light combined to create a cozy, womblike environment, a sort of cosmic solitude. I had the sensation of floating in space, completely isolated from the real world. My only human contact was with the disembodied voices of callers. Everything seemed dusted with an ethereal—yes, I'll say it—ghostly quality. I could touch and hear the whole world, while no one could be sure of my existence; I was just one more voice in the teeming concert of hertzian waves. It was a land of the blind, where we were guided by sounds and voices, and space took the shape our words gave it. We transformed it with every description, comment, insult, or digression. It was almost like death, floating aimlessly at night, listening to spectral voices that in turn spoke about specters, indifferent to their own condition.

She jumped up and grabbed the disk, but the second she came down, Ian and Caleb grasped onto her legs. “Get ’em off me!” Megan shouted, struggling forward and laughing uncontrollably. “Get ’em off me!” “Die, Kicker! Die!” Ian shouted, holding on for dear life. Finn rushed over and Megan tried to toss the Frisbee to him. He let it fly right past his face and instead grabbed Caleb, tickling him until he had to let go of Megan. “Foul! No fair!” Ian shouted. Caleb rolled on the ground, giggling, and Megan tripped over him and tumbled forward, taking Finn down with her. It was a huge mass of tangled arms and legs, but all Megan knew was that she was right on top of Finn, her chest pressed against his, his leg between her thighs, her wrist pinned under his neck. Someone--Ian--was on her back, holding her down, preventing her from extricating herself. Not that she exactly wanted to. “Well, this is awkward,” Finn said with a laugh, trying to sit up. “Ian! Get off her!” “All right!” Ian said, rolling free. Ian snatched the Frisbee from the ground and he and Caleb took off across the yard, holding it high. Finally Finn was able to sit and Megan rolled away from him, sitting in the dirt at his side. They both fought to catch their breath, though Megan’s oxygen deprivation had nothing to do with the game. “You okay?” Finn asked. “Yeah, you?” she replied. Every inch of her body was throbbing to touch him again. “Yeah,” he replied with a huge grin. He pushed himself around and got on all fours in front of her, pausing there with his face just inches from hers. “I’m glad you stayed,” he whispered his breath arm on her face. Megan somehow managed to reply. “Me too.

Finally Finn was able to sit and Megan rolled away from him, sitting in the dirt at his side. They both fought to catch their breath, though Megan’s oxygen deprivation had nothing to do with the game. “You okay?” Finn asked. “Yeah, you?” she replied. Every inch of her body was throbbing to touch him again. “Yeah,” he replied with a huge grin. He pushed himself around and got on all fours in front of her, pausing there with his face just inches from hers. “I’m glad you stayed,” he whispered his breath arm on her face. Megan somehow managed to reply. “Me too.” Then Finn pushed himself up and headed back toward the center of the yard. For a moment, Megan couldn’t move. Then Doug walked over and offered his arm. Megan grasped it thankfully and he yanked her up to her shaky legs. “Who’s all in a twist now?” he asked with a smirk. Megan laughed and shoved him from behind as they headed back to the line. “Dude! I wanna trade!” Doug shouted. “Finn for Sean!” “You got it,” Evan replied. “Get your head in the game,” Doug said to Megan.

Although there are areas of overlap between working with psychotic and borderline children and with severely deprived children, some of the stresses involved are different. Deprived children are generally more in touch with reality and able to use language more or less effectively to communicate their thoughts and feelings. Even if they shut you out and are silent and apparently unresponsive, there is often little doubt that there is ‘someone there’ whom you could make contact with should they allow it.

Counsel: The holiness of the servant lies in his freeing his knowledge and his will. He should free his knowledge from fanciful, tangible, and imagined things, and from all perceptions which he shares with animals. His continuing study and his ranging learning should rather be concerned with eternal divine things that are quite free from having to come closer to be perceived by the senses, or move farther away so as to be hidden from them. So he will become free himself from all tangible and imagined things, appropriating from the sciences what would remain were one deprived of sensory organs and imagination, and so be refreshed by forms of knowledge that are noble, universal, and divine, concerned with eternal and everlasting objects of knowledge and not with changeable and imaginable individuals. As for his will, he should free it from revolving around human participations that stem from pleasure of desire or from anger, the enjoyment of food, sex, clothing, what can be touched or seen, or whatever pleasures come to him only by way of his senses and his body. In this way he will desire nothing but God-great and glorious; he well have no share except in God, no longing except to meet Him, no happiness except being near to Him. Even if paradise with all of its happiness were offered to him he would not turn his aspiration towards it, nor would the worlds [of heaven and earth] satisfy him, but only the Lord of these worlds. In sum, sensory and imaginary perceptions are shared with animals, and one should rise above them in favour of what is properly human. Animals also vie with man in human sensuous pleasures, so one should free oneself from them. The aspirant is as exalted as the object to which he aspires, as one who is intent on what enters his stomach is as valuable as what comes out of it, but whoever is intent on nothing except God-great and glorious-finds the level commensurate with his intent. And whoever elevates his mind above the level of imagined and tangible things, and frees his will from the dictates of passion, will lodge in the abundance of the garden of holiness.

We cannot escape the Lord’s words to us, and they will serve as the criteria upon which we will be judged: whether we have fed the hungry and given drink to the thirsty, welcomed the stranger and clothed the naked, or spent time with the sick and those in prison (cf. Mt 25:31–45). Moreover, we will be asked if we have helped others to escape the doubt that causes them to fall into despair and which is often a source of loneliness; if we have helped to overcome the ignorance in which millions of people live, especially children deprived of the necessary means to free them from the bonds of poverty; if we have been close to the lonely and afflicted; if we have forgiven those who have offended us and have rejected all forms of anger and hate that lead to violence; if we have had the kind of patience God shows, who is so patient with us; and if we have commended our brothers and sisters to the Lord in prayer. In each of these “little ones,” Christ himself is present. His flesh becomes visible in the flesh of the tortured, the crushed, the scourged, the malnourished, and the exiled…to be acknowledged, touched, and cared for by us. Let us not forget the words of Saint John of the Cross: “as we prepare to leave this life, we will be judged on the basis of love”.12

Jefferson described and criticized this impulse to attribute to the past “a wisdom more than human” and to treat “constitutions with sanctimonious reverence and deem them like the ark of the covenant, too sacred to be touched.”10 Madison’s principal reason for deifying the Founders was his belief that the people could not be trusted to intelligently rule themselves. Citizens must be taught through habit and tradition to obey constituted governmental authority, and reverence for the Founders served that purpose. Without it, the people might too frequently change their constitution, which would “in a great measure, deprive the government of that veneration which time bestows on everything, and without which perhaps the wisest and freest governments would not possess the requisite stability.” Experiments in the system of government were “of too ticklish a nature to be unnecessarily multiplied.” It was dangerous to “disturb the public tranquility by interesting too strongly the public passions.

The way women are made to conform to this double standard is through the deprivation of sexual self knowledge. Deprived of their own bodies, they have no way of discovering or developing sexual responses. Had an early age, women are prohibited from touching their genitals with the threat of supernatural or real punishment. Information about the clitoris and life affirming orgasm is withheld, and women are installed with the idea that female genitals are inferior, that a woman’s main value lies in procreation and giving a man sexual pleasure. Without any sexual pleasure of her own, I woman may come to think of her genitals as being repulsive and a constant source of discomfort and shame. This kind of sexual repression is a vital aspect of keeping women in their ‘proper role’.

During those years of deprivation and suffering, I had learned many things that could be helpful in the lives of others. Because the life of any man has its share of suffering; We have all touched despair at times and have wondered why God allows evil to befall us or those we love. In the fields I saw a lot of suffering around me; I myself was on the verge of succumbing to despair and, in the darkest hours, I learned to look to Allah for comfort and to trust Him alone.

I have read in the Gospel that the Good Shepherd leaves the faithful ones of His flock in the desert to hasten after the lost sheep. This confidence touches me deeply. You see He is sure of them. How could they stray away? They are prisoners of Love. In like manner does the Beloved Shepherd of our souls deprive us of the sweets of His Presence, to give His consolations to sinners

Death, if it came unexpectedly, might be cruel but it wasn't frightening, because you didn't have the chance to realize what was about to happen. Knowing your own fate in advance, on the other hand, was a terrifying form of torture, maybe even worse than death itself. A prelude to madness. Fearing the shadow of death with each breath was an agonizing countdown that left you exhausted and sapped your will to fight, until its echoing whisper faded into an icy silence that deprived you of everything. It was like a deadly poison that took effect silently, draining your energy, battering your mind's defenses until you ultimately wanted to give in to its comfort, letting it shroud you in its dark mantle so the fear itself wouldn't kill you...slowly

The physicist can investigate the nature of the atom, at least in the modern age, without having to meet the opposition of anyone who is interested in perpetuating certain strongly held ideas about its structure. The research worker in medicine and the psychologist can investigate the operation of the human body and mind without having to be concerned about the prejudices of the rest of the community. There is no pressure in these sciences to make the results conform to someone else's prejudices and preconceptions. But the economist is not so fortunate. His investigations touch the pocketbook, always a sensitive spot. Consequently, he is exposed to all kinds of pressures: the pressure of those who want him to prove the free trade is the only way to prosperity, and of those who want him to show that without protective tariffs, the American worker will be deprived of his job. To satisfy one vocal group he must prove that high wages are the cause of unemployment; to satisfy another, he must show that unemployment is bound to grow unless wages are raised. He must prove that the gold standard should be maintained; likewise he must show that it ought to be abolished. The difficulties of being objective in such an atmosphere are, of course, enormous. The economist must seek truth, when from all sides he is under pressure to defend causes.

Touching reaffirms safety and security. That you were deprived for so long was incredibly painful, James. You no longer believe in many things…and it is quite normal that you would only allow those whom you perhaps…trust with that privilege. I understand why you have dismissed Monsieur Gillespie and I want you to know the rage you possibly felt, the disgust…is also normal, because he violated your boundaries.

A lifetrap is a pattern or theme that starts in childhood and repeats throughout life. The theme might Abandonment or Mistrust or Emotional Deprivation or any of the others we described. The end result is that, as an adult, we manage to recreate the conditions of our childhood that were most harmful to us. A life-trap is self-destructive. This self-defeating quality is what makes lifetraps so poignant for us as therapist to watch. We see someone like Patrick get abandoned again, or someone like Madeline get abused. Patients are drawn to situations that trigger their lifetraps, like moths to flame. A lifetrap damages our sense of self, our health, our relationships with others, our work, our happiness, our moods - it touches every aspect of our lives. A lifetrap struggles hard for survival. We feel a strong push to maintain it. This is part of the human drive for consistency. the lifetrap is what we know. Although it is painful, it is comfortable and familiar. It is therefore very difficult to change. Furthermore, our lifetraps were usually developed when we were children as appropriate adaptations to the family we lived in. These patterns were realistic when we were children; the problem is that we continue to repeat them when they no longer serve a useful purpose.

The duke had indeed existed alone for ten long years. That shattering knowledge brought a harsh ache to the back of Jules’s throat and calmed the odd sense of fright that had filled her at his intensity. There were so many times she had felt an aloneness that ravaged her, for she truly felt like she did not belong. Despite being surrounded by friends and family, Jules had not been able to confide her uncertainty and hopes to anyone. As she grew older she had kept a careful distance from her sister and acquaintances lest they discovered the truth. Eschewing deep bonds and friendship had bred a sense of aloneness that had eaten at her, and more than one night she had buried her face in her pillows and wept. How had it been for the duke? Everyone needed a measure of contact, and he had been deprived of it for years. How had he endured without the comfort of a hug or a lover’s embrace? To touch others and be touched was an imperative biological need and necessity. It was a language without words that he might hunger for without knowing it, for touch was far more powerful and stronger than verbal or emotional contact. There had been no gentle touch, a kiss against the brow…a lover’s touch, the reassuring slap of a friend across his shoulders.

Let’s play a game.” “You and your damn games. I swear it’s like you were deprived of fun as a child.” His lips twitch as he slides his palms up my thighs. They tremble beneath his touch, and I press them together to hide their shakiness. “You’ll like this one. I promise.” He makes quick work of my sneakers and socks, and they thud against the carpet like stripped battle armor. I rise up on my elbows. “What are the rules?” His eyes bleed to black. “There is only one.” “That seems easy.” He tsks as he drags my dress hem a little higher. My breathing comes out harsher, and that seems to only encourage him. “Beg.

There was a time when to be a woman was to be directly in the image of the Divine. There was a time when God was a Woman and Her spaciousness filled the vision and touched the hearts of every man, woman, and child who worshiped Her. She was called Goddess, Lady, Mother of All. Her manifestations were many: Huntress and Mistress of Animals, Lady of the Plants, Queen of Heaven and Earth, Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer. It was She who created life and nourished it and She was deprived it and took it away. All things were subject to the Great Mother who was the origin and resource of every living thing and of the inanimate world as well. The diversity and richness of Her images attest to a vision of Woman among the ancients that was spacious, complex and multifaceted. This vision conveyed to feminine experience depth of meaning, awesome power, and profound value. So much that is lost, split off, devalued, or left unnamed in women's experiences today was once integrated into a vast vision of femaleness that was so valued, it was seen as holy. This included sexuality, menstruation, birthing, mothering, menopause, aging, and power to name but a few areas in women's lives that were valued by Goddess-worshiping peoples in ancient times but that have been devalued or stereotyped in our own. To turn back to these ancient images, to try to reconstruct their meaning in their own times as best we can, and to dream them forward into new meaning for our own time deepens and enriches our experience of ourselves as women, The multiple faces of the feminine God expand our vision of what a woman is and offer us a broader possibility for reclaiming and naming our own experiences. They also help us, by contrast, to identify more clearly the patriarchal vision of women inherent in our own cultural tradition and to determine for ourselves which aspects of that particular vision accurately comprehend our experience and which do not. This aids in the true naming of ourselves which is the central individuation task of women today.

He nodded against my neck and his hands came around to cup my breasts, grinding into me again from behind. I ground back. He moaned, slipping a hand down the front of my panties. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered against my ear, moving against me. Oh my fucking God… What didn’t I like? It had been so long and I was so deprived I was afraid he was going to finish me right there. My body began to tremble at the build. I couldn’t take it anymore. He seemed to sense it because he pulled his fingers back right before I disintegrated in his hand, and he laid me down on the bed, sliding over me. He hovered on his forearms and ran a thick, muscular thigh up between my legs until it hit my core and I sucked in air against his lips. Oh my God, he was so good at this… And he fucking knew it. He smiled and kissed me, his tongue darting in my mouth, his rough hands canvassing my skin like he wanted to feel every inch of me. I did the same. It felt so good to touch him. My eyes had spent so much time learning his body, and my hands wanted to map him. I ran fingers along his chest, over the curve of his broad freckled shoulders, down the muscles of his back, along the valley of his spine. I breathed in his scent as I grabbed his firm ass and pulled him into me and he groaned, rubbing hard against my leg. I couldn’t believe this was real, that I got to touch him, that he was kissing me, that there was nothing between us but my thin G-string. His bare skin pressing into mine was the most exquisite feeling of my life, a million nerve endings connecting with his, little electrical shocks that merged into one huge surge. He sat up and kneeled between my legs, picking up my foot and putting it on his shoulder. The view was fucking spectacular. The definition of his chest continued down with a line of hair into a V muscle that pointed at his divine penis like an arrow. I reached out and took him in my hand and his breathing went ragged. My gaze came back up to his hooded eyes. He kissed my ankle and I watched him do it, biting my lip, stroking him, my need unraveling into something so starved I wanted to beg him to have mercy on me and just fuck me already. I thought of the way he’d touched me in the car, his strong hands massaging my calf, and I couldn’t help but feel like he was continuing something he started earlier. He ran his palms from my ankle, behind my knee, up my thigh, and he hooked my panties in his thumbs and pulled them down and off. Then he balled them in his hand, shut his eyes, and put them to his nose, breathing in. When his eyes opened again, they’d gone primal. He came at me like a wild animal. He lowered onto me, his jaw clenched tight, every muscle of his body tense, and I lifted my hips. He held my gaze as he eased himself in, slow and deliberate, and I wrapped my legs around his waist, feral with need, frantically urging him deeper. One… Two… I wasn’t going to last a minute and it was all overload, his naked body pressed to mine, the feel of him inside me, rhythmically thrusting against my core, deeper and deeper, his quivering breath over my collarbone, his hips grinding between my legs, his scent, his sounds, the heat of his skin, the rocking of the bed, the moaning in my throat—my back arched and I fell apart at the same time he did, clutching at everything, pulling him into me, pulsing with his release. He collapsed on top of me and I was decimated. I lay there like a rag doll, twitching with aftershocks. He gasped for breath, his face by my ear. “Holy…fucking…shit,” he panted. I just nodded. I couldn’t even speak. I’d never had sex that good. Never in my life—and I’d had my share of good sex. It was like we’d been foreplaying for weeks and I’d been sexually malnourished, starving, waiting for him to feed me.

Anyone that can deprive you of your dreams, your highest purpose in life, has the ability to kill you without a weapon, without ever touching you.

We often see people who do things that look a bit crazy. We see somebody all the time not succeeding at things they could succeed at, or they are pulling out of relationships that looked promising, or they are putting up a wall when anyone tries to love them, or they’re sabotaging their chances, or whatever. And we think “Why does that person do it, it’s completely crazy, there’s no logic to it?” Here’s a very important point, there is always a point. Those behaviors once upon a time made great sense. I want to go further, not only did they make great sense, they were very often the difference between life and death, between managing to continue with life and giving up on life. We needed those patterns. Imagine someone growing up with a parent who is suicidal, they are threatening suicide, how on Earth does a child survive that experience? One of the ways they might learn to survive that experience is to shut down completely, right? They will never ever let anyone in because to let someone in is to risk their own annihilation. That when you’re 5 years old, to work that out, that is near genius, to work out that in order to survive you need to shut the drawbridge very tight. Fast forward 25, 35, 45, family situation resolved itself in whatever way, and you’ve moved on and you’re trying to have relationships or whatever, but in a horrible way that defense mechanism is still active, and now it’s trouble because now it means that when somebody comes along and says “Oh we could have a relationship”, “Umm, no not possible” because the drawbridge is still shut so a lot of the behavior that is suboptimal in adult life, once had a logic which we don’t understand, and we’re not sympathetic to it, we don’t even see it, but if we can learn to see that logic we can largely then come to unpick it. Or imagine somebody who, let’s say, we all know these people, who can’t stop joking around, somebody who is completely optimistic and sunny and even when something’s sad they’re at a funeral, they make a joke around the casket, and you go “Why are you not able to get in touch with your sadness?” Again imagine that former child has come through a journey where once upon a time it was absolutely essential that they be the clown and cheer up maybe a depressive mother or a father who was very angry and couldn’t find anything optimistic. That child needed to become a clown to get to the next stage of life, but now that precise behavior starts to be extremely negative. Another thing that children constantly do, is when children are brought up in suboptimal surroundings with parents who maybe are not that nice to them, it would be devastating to the child to have to see that the fault lies with their parent. Right? To imagine when you’re a four-year-old that your father or mother is really not a very nice person and maybe really quite disturbed and kind of awful, this is an unbearable thought. This was the pioneering work of the Scottish Psychoanalyst Ronald Faban. He was working with very deprived people in Edinburgh and Glasgow in the 1930s and he arrived at a fascinating conclusion. He talked to children from the most deprived most violent abusive families and he discovered that those children spoke very highly of their parents, they would say “My father is a great man”, this is the guy who was hitting the child, “My mother, she’s amazing”, mother you know left the kid unclean and unfed for days. In Faben’s view, it’s better to think that you are the problem than that you’ve been born into a problematic situation, so what happens when you’re in a suboptimal parental situation, is you start to hate yourself, and blame yourself and feel bad about yourself because it is preferable to the other bit of really bad news which is to think that you’ve been born into such an inadequate family, that you may not survive it.

In a quiet abode, where shadows weep, Lived the saddest grandmother, her sorrow ran deep. Once a home filled with laughter and cheer, Now echoes silence, a symphony of tears. Her eyes, like windows to a weathered soul, Glistened with memories that took their toll. A tale unfolded of love's sweet refrain, Now stained with loss, an enduring pain. Beside the hearth where warmth once thrived, Loneliness lingered, love deprived. A husband's absence, a void untold, Left her heart shattered, bitter and cold. Her family, once a vibrant bouquet, Now scattered petals, drifting away. The echoes of laughter, a distant sound, In the vast emptiness that sorrow found. Photographs whispered of days long past, A love that forever seemed to last. But time, a cruel and relentless stream, Carved lines of grief in a once joyous dream. Through tear-stained letters and faded attire, The saddest grandmother stoked love's dwindling fire. A matriarch cradled in solitude's embrace, Longing for the touch of her love's warm grace. Her children, grown and scattered like leaves, Each carried a piece of the pain she conceives. Yet, united by grief, a bittersweet thread, Bound by the love that time hadn't shed. In twilight's embrace, she wept in despair, A tapestry woven with threads of wear. The saddest grandmother, weathered and gray, Whispered to the wind the words she couldn't say. For in the echoes of her silent plea, Lingered the remnants of love's decree. A tale of loss, etched in the lines, Of the saddest grandmother, where sorrow resigns.

The brain-disease model overlooks four fundamental truths: (1) our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another. Restoring relationships and community is central to restoring well-being; (2) language gives us the power to change ourselves and others by communicating our experiences, helping us to define what we know, and finding a common sense of meaning; (3) we have the ability to regulate our own physiology, including some of the so-called involuntary functions of the body and brain, through such basic activities as breathing, moving, and touching; and (4) we can change social conditions to create environments in which children and adults can feel safe and where they can thrive. When we ignore these quintessential dimensions of humanity, we deprive people of ways to heal from trauma and restore their autonomy. Being a patient, rather than a participant in one’s healing process, separates suffering people from their community and alienates them from an inner sense of self. Given the limitations of drugs, I started to wonder if we could find more natural ways to help people deal with their post-traumatic responses

But damn it, Skye, I want to make love to you. I want to touch you and I want you to touch me. I don’t want to take away any of your senses. I don’t want to deprive you of an orgasm or punish you. I don’t want to tie you up this time. I just want to lie next to you, as your equal, and make love to you.

Cassian needed the contact. Always needed physical contact, he'd learned. Probably thanks to a childhood spent with precious little of it.

These New World practices (enslavement and genocide) formed another secret link with the anti-human animus of mechanical industry after the sixteenth century, when the workers were no longer protected either by feudal custom or by the self-governing guild. The degradations undergone by child laborers or women during the early nineteenth century in England's 'satanic mills' and mines only reflected those that took place during the territorial expansion of Western man. In Tasmania, for example, British colonists organized 'hunting parties' for pleasure, to slaughter the surviving natives: a people more primitive, scholars believe, than the Australian natives, who should have been preserved, so to say, under glass, for the benefit of later anthropologists. So commonplace were these practices, so plainly were the aborigines regarded as predestined victims, that even the benign and morally sensitive Emerson could say resignedly in an early poem, 1827: "Alas red men are few, red men are feeble, They are few and feeble and must pass away." As a result Western man not merely blighted in some degree every culture that he touched, whether 'primitive' or advanced, but he also robbed his own descendants of countless gifts of art and craftsmanship, as well as precious knowledge passed on only by word of mouth that disappeared with the dying languages of dying peoples. With this extirpation of earlier cultures went a vast loss of botanical and medical lore, representing many thousands of years of watchful observation and empirical experiment whose extraordinary discoveries-such as the American Indian's use of snakeroot (reserpine) as a tranquilizer in mental illness-modern medicine has now, all too belatedly, begun to appreciate. For the better part of four centuries the cultural riches of the entire world lay at the feet of Western man; and to his shame, and likewise to his gross self-deprivation and impoverishment, his main concern was to appropriate only the gold and silver and diamonds, the lumber and pelts, and such new foods (maize and potatoes) as would enable him to feed larger populations.

For the majority of our marriage I was so busy mothering babies and nursing on demand that by the end of the day I didn’t even want to be touched by David. During those sleep-deprived months when it was all I could do to get dressed by noon, reading articles about rekindling the fire or dating your husband frustrated me; it was just another chore on a huge to-do list that was never done.

A neglected child may learn to get attention by getting into trouble or by annoying his parents. One will drink muddy water when he is dying of thirst. I know of children who get their touch and stimulation needs met by getting spanked. Much has been written about abortive adaptation. Suffice it to say, when one’s basic dependency needs are not met at the proper time and in the proper sequence, the personality is arrested at those developmental stages. The child learns adaptive ways to get his needs met. Over the course of time, as one experiences need-deprivation, one loses awareness of these needs. Ultimately, one does not even know what one needs.

Infants who are not touched and interacted with die of a kind of stroke deprivation called “mirasmus.” Marcel Geber, who went on a United Nations commission to study protein deficiency in Ugandan children, found their infants and toddlers to be the most advanced children in the world. It seems that the infants were continually held by the Ugandan mothers. Their bodies were in continuous contact and movement.

The pathways with axons pointed towards the core, and which carry impulses inward, are called the afferent pathways. They originate in the various sensory endings of the body—the exteroceptors on the surface, the proprioceptors in the connective tissues (especially the joints), and the interoceptors in the the internal organs. Their final axons terminate in the sensory cortex. They are often referred to as the sensory pathways. Their job is to carry to all the levels of the nervous system information about everything that is affecting the organism—that is, all sensory stimulation. Four of these afferent pathways are short and distinct, arising from the highly localized and specialized areas of the “special senses”—sight, hearing, taste, and smell. The fifth kind of sensory information, that wide array of sensations we refer to collectively as “touch,” converges on the cortex from virtually every surface and cranny of the body. These are the “somatic senses,” and they include all of the pathways and endings which inform us of our internal state of affairs and our relationship to the outside world. The afferent, inflowing pathways of the nervous system constitute one of the principal tools of bodywork. It is by their means that surface contact and pressure enter into the deeper strata of the mind, where genetic potential and sensory experience are fused into behavior and character. Each successive afferent neuron is a finger reaching deeper and deeper into the interior, making its influence felt on all levels which influence behavior. It is sensory input which has conditioned our reflexes, postures, and habits into the patterns in which we find ourselves living. Nothing would seem to be more reasonable than the expectation that different sensory input can recondition these habits and patterns, alter them, improve them. This input can be different both in the sense of being more, giving additional nutritive contact to the various subtle degrees of “deprivation dwarfism,” and in the sense of being more pleasurable, more caring, softening and dissolving compulsive patterns that have been created by pain and stress.

It is here that we touch on the neuralgic point of the modern age: the concept of truth has in practice been abandoned and replaced by the concept of progress. Progress itself “is” truth. But this apparent elevation deprives progress of all contents; it dissolves into nothing. For if there is no direction, everything can be interpreted either as progress or as regress.

Liberty, next to religion, has been the motive of good deeds and the common pretext of crime, from the sowing of the seed at Athens, two thousand four hundred and sixty years ago, until the ripened harvest was gathered by men of our race. It is the delicate fruit of a mature civilisation; and scarcely a century has passed since nations, that knew the meaning of the term, resolved to be free. In every age its progress has been beset by its natural enemies, by ignorance and superstitution, by lust of conquest and by love of ease, by the strong man’s craving for power, and the poor man’s craving for food. During long intervals it has been utterly arrested, when nations were being rescued from barbarism and from the grasp of strangers, and when the perpetual struggle for existence, depriving men of all interest and understanding in politics, has made them eager to sell their birthright for a pottage, and ignorant of the treasure they resigned. At all times sincere friends of freedom have been rare, and its triumphs have been due to minorities, that have prevailed by associating themselves with auxiliaries whose objects often differed from their own; and this association, which is always dangerous, has been sometimes disastrous, by giving to opponents just grounds of opposition, and by kindling dispute over the spoils in the hour of success. No obstacle has been so constant, or so difficult to overcome, as uncertainty and confusion touching the nature of true liberty. If hostile interests have wrought much injury, false ideas have wrought still more; and its advance is recorded in the increase of knowledge, as much as in the improvement of laws. The history of institutions is often a history of deception and illusions; for their virtue depends on the ideas that produce and on the spirit that preserves them, and the form may remain unaltered when the substance has passed away.

Saigon, the center, where every action in the bushes hundreds of miles away fed back into town on a karmic wire strung so tight that if you touched it in the early morning it would sing all day and all night. Nothing so horrible ever happened upcountry that it was beyond language fix and press relations, a squeeze fit into the computers would make the heaviest numbers jump up and dance. You’d either meet an optimism that no violence could unconvince or a cynicism that would eat itself empty every day and then turn, hungry and malignant, on whatever it could for a bite, friendly or hostile, it didn’t matter. Those men called dead Vietnamese “believers,” a lost American platoon was “a black eye,” they talked as though killing a man was nothing more than depriving him of his vigor.

The brain-disease model overlooks four fundamental truths: (1) our capacity to destroy one another is matched by our capacity to heal one another. Restoring relationships and community is central to restoring well-being; (2) language gives us the power to change ourselves and others by communicating our experiences, helping us to define what we know, and finding a common sense of meaning; (3) we have the ability to regulate our own physiology, including some of the so-called involuntary functions of the body and brain, through such basic activities as breathing, moving, and touching; and (4) we can change social conditions to create environments in which children and adults can feel safe and where they can thrive. When we ignore these quintessential dimensions of humanity, we deprive people of ways to heal from trauma and restore their autonomy. Being a patient, rather than a participant in one’s healing process, separates suffering people from their community and alienates them from an inner sense of self.

We both know you won’t touch her. You’re going to force her to be deprived just because you are

His back tightened, then he began to move deeply, surely, possessively. She moaned and lifted herself to meet him as the glorious rhythm reigned. She was so ready, the friction quickly pushed her over the edge. Without warning, her body convulsed on a sunbright peak. For a small eternity, rapture blasted her, turned the air around her incandescent with pleasure. She tasted the salt of her tears on her lips. Aftershocks still quivered through her. Tenderly, she ran her hands down his lean hips to knead his firm buttocks. Part of her clung to the ecstasy even as the blaze subsided to a gentle glow. The physical delight hadn't faded. If anything, it was sharper, deeper, more profound. Matured through suffering and loss and deprivation. She expected him to finish but he wasn't satisfied yet. Implacably, he tilted her hips and continued to ravish her. Shocked, she realized he hadn't found release in that shivering culmination. She'd been too lost in her own pleasure to register his responses. Before her last climax subsided, another more shattering crises ripped through her. She raised her hand to her mouth and bit down hard to muffle a scream. Uncontrollable ecstasy gripped her in claws of flame. It was as though the dragons on the doors had breathed their fire into her lover. Still he didn't relent. Almost roughly, he reached down to stroke the swollen folds between her legs and this time she did scream. She arched up to kiss him using teeth and tongue. Her touch held no tenderness. Although in her heart, she felt an endless lake of tenderness for this man she loved so dearly. Another wave hit her and she shuddered, blind with the violent onslaught of sensation. Time itself was suspended as she lost herself in ultimate pleasure. Matthew groaned from deep in his throat as he at last gave himself up. While liquid heat spilled into her womb, she clutched his shaking body. Slowly, inevitably, she made the dazzling descent from heaven. She closed her eyes and let pleasure ebb through velvety, electric darkness. He lay on top of her, heavy, beloved, welcome.

I found Lord John and William in the parlor, both of them a little flushed. “Mother Claire.” Willie took my hand and gently kissed it. “Come and look. Papa has found something he thinks you will like. Come and see it,” he repeated, drawing me gently toward the table. “It” was a large wooden chest, made of some expensive wood, banded in gold. I blinked at it and put out a hand to touch it. It looked rather like a cutlery safe but much bigger. “What …?” I looked up to find Lord John standing beside me, looking somewhat abashed. “A, um, present,” he said, deprived for once of his smooth manners. “I thought—I mean, I perceived that you lacked somewhat in the way of … equipment. I do not wish you to abandon your profession,” he added gently. “My profession.” A

I left you two more pieces. You can’t be full.” I glanced over at him. “You mean you didn’t stop eating because you were full?” He shook his head. “No, I was being considerate. I’m never full.” I leaned back on the sofa. “Eat all you want. I’m done.” He didn’t lean forward to grab another slice like I had expected him to. Instead his attention stayed on me. “Why did you invite me here tonight, Ash?” My face flushed. Why had I asked him to come? Answering that question wasn’t easy. Since he’d walked in the door, I’d been acting ridiculous. I never seemed to be at a loss for things to say to Sawyer. Beau rattled me. Now he was being bored to death by the preacher’s daughter when he could be spending his evening with his sexy, hot girlfriend, doing all those things I knew nothing about. I was depriving him of an exciting night. The idea that he’d come tonight to entertain me for his cousin’s sake made me feel awful. He’d been doing this as a charity, and I couldn’t even make it interesting for him. Well, at least I’d fed him. “I’m sorry. I guess I just didn’t want to be alone, but I’m okay. You can go. I know this is dull compared to your normal activities.” I managed a weak smile. His frown deepened as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “Being with you isn’t dull. You just seem uncomfortable. If you want me to leave, I will. I have a feeling you’re rethinking the having me over thing.” I sighed and let out a small laugh. “No. I want you to stay. I’ve just never had any guy over here but Sawyer, and even then my parents were here. I’m nervous. It’s not that I don’t want you here.” “Why do I make you nervous?” he asked, watching me. “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “Hmm, you’re wrong, by the way,” he replied, grinning. “What?” “You’ve had other guys here. I use to come here often. Your room still looks the same.” I smiled. He was right. I just needed to remember this was the same boy who used to lie on my bed with me and watch movies. He closed the space between us and relaxed as he stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. “I don’t bite, Ash. It’s just me. Promise. Come here and see.” I studied the crook of his arm; the idea of snuggling up against him was extremely tempting. But I didn’t think he had that in mind. So instead I leaned back on the couch, careful not to touch him. His hand didn’t come around me and pull me closer. It remained on the back of the couch, and I hated that I was disappointed. “Relax and watch the movie,” he said in a soft voice I’d never heard him use before. It made me feel warm and safe.

I gently moved the hair stuck to her tear-soaked face back and tucked it behind her ears. She glanced down and tensed as she finally noticed my lack of a shirt. My chest was now soaked with not only sweat but her tears. I started to say something but the words got stuck in my throat as her hand oved up to my chest and she began softly wiping the droplets of moisture off me. I stopped breathing. I knew it was wrong to let her do this, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. She shifted in my lap until she was straddling me. I let my hands fall to her waist as she continued touching my chest. My heart started slamming against my ribs so hard I knew she had to feel it. I needed to stop this. “Beau,” she said. I tore my eyes away from her hands on my chest and gazed up at her face. There was a question in her eyes. I could see it. “Yes.” I managed a strangled reply. Her hands left me, and I started to take a deep breath to ease my burning, oxygen-deprived lungs when I realized why she’d stopped driving me crazy with her innocent caresses. That deep breath lodged in my throat as her top came off. Without taking her eyes off me, she dropped the little tank top onto the grass beside her. I had thought nothing could be sexier than Ashton in a bikini; I’d been so wrong. Ashton in a lacy white bra was by far the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. “Ash, baby, what’re you doing?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. I tried forcing myself to look up at her face and gauge what she was thinking, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her boobs. “Touch me,” she whispered. The fact she was Sawyer’s girl no longer seemed to matter. I couldn’t tell her no. Hell, I couldn’t tell myself no. I traced a line from her collarbone to the top of her cleavage. She gasped loudly and sank down in my lap, applying pressure to my cock. She was going to send me into a crazed frenzy if she kept it up. As if she could read my thoughts, she seemed to test me as she wiggled her ass in my lap. “Ah, damn,” I moaned before grabbing her face and pulling her mouth to mine. The moment my mouth touched hers, my world started spinning beneath me. I couldn’t get enough. I had her bra off and my hands full within seconds. The loud moan of pleasure that escaped from her mouth almost sent me over the edge.

Dominique Devallée is like a soft breeze, but something about him also begs for chaos. I can see the same look in his eyes as I did back then, outside the church. He’s still lost and deprived of touch. Still, his features are striking, yet gentle, with his dark hair swept out of his face, and those large, coffee-colored eyes. They’re trained on me. And he’s on to something. “Don’t go for a war you can’t win,” I want to tell him. “Even justice is partisan.