你的孤单可能是因为，没有给过爱你的人接近你的机会KnowYourself

很久以前，我们曾写过一篇关于丧剧《马男波杰克》的影评，里面的主人公波杰克是一个工作生活一团乱的过气明星。当我们回溯过去，会发现波杰克有一个糟糕透顶的童年，失败的父亲和自私的母亲一直打压着波杰克。成年后的波杰克害怕孤独又总是陷入孤独，他收留了朋友陶德，却总是忍不住对他恶言相向。有一次，波杰克要拍

你的孤单可能是因为，没有给过爱你的人接近你的机会KnowYourself

很久以前，我们曾写过一篇关于丧剧《马男波杰克》的影评，里面的主人公波杰克是一个工作生活一团乱的过气明星。当我们回溯过去，会发现波杰克有一个糟糕透顶的童年，失败的父亲和自私的母亲一直打压着波杰克。成年后的波杰克害怕孤独又总是陷入孤独，他收留了朋友陶德，却总是忍不住对他恶言相向。有一次，波杰克要拍哭戏，然而因为他的母亲从小就要求他不准哭，他怎么样都没办法在镜头前掉一滴泪。家庭的诅咒如影随形地伴随着他的成长，直到成年都没有停止。我们的后台也经常收到很多人的留言，童年经历过的创伤，深深困扰着成年的他们。今天我们就来聊一聊，为什么在成年后，我们仍旧难以走出童年创伤的梦魇？童年创伤在成年的我们身上留下的18种不良图式Young（Young, 1990）提出，经历过有害的童年经历的人可能会形成一种不良图式”。它是一种人们因为创伤而形成的不健康的思维与情绪感知模式。不良模式的危害在于，它参与塑造了人看待自我和世界的角度，在人的一生中不断产生着负面影响。Young将人的不良图式分为了18种，篇幅原因我们在这里列举了13种，（附图式自测表），你是否拥有以下这些不良图式呢？

【详细】

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今晚两集有点平淡，配角戏份多了，拖慢进度。女主和前夫哥的重逢可以再表现得“荡气回肠”些，女主回头那里不够“煽情”，好吧，谁让前夫哥只是个男二，他不配!前夫哥偏执，找替身，为了相似的声音让别的女人反复叫他的名字，而且还是在整了容的正主面前，这行为确实挺变态，都把女主恶心吐了。唉……可怜之人必有可恨之处，所以，陆小枣悲剧了。杜亚飞演出了男二阴鸷变态的感觉，个人还是喜欢他平静些的表情，不扭曲的样子

很喜欢两位主演，过年看看爽剧也挺好；没看过原著，目前看剧有两个地方觉得有一些可改进的空间。

1 虚拟世界对女子的规训到底是怎样的？

一边二房那边一直拿女子不可在外主事压制女主，一边又有男德学院，有这么多入赘女婿，甚至当街有女孩教育老公要照着某某布行的布料买衣服否

Either peace or happiness,

let it enfold you

when I was a young man

I felt these things were

Either peace or happiness,

let it enfold you

when I was a young man

I felt these things were

dumb, unsophisticated.

I had bad blood, a twisted

mind, a precarious

upbringing.

I was hard as granite, I

leered at the

sun.

I trusted no man and

especially no

woman.

I was living a hell in

small rooms, I broke

things, smashed things,

walked through glass,

cursed.

I challenged everything,

was continually being

evicted, jailed, in and

out of fights, in and out

of my mind.

women were something

to screw and rail

at, I had no male

friends,

I changed jobs and

cities, I hated holidays,

babies, history,

newspapers, museums,

grandmothers,

marriage, movies,

spiders, garbagemen,

english accents,spain,

france,italy,walnuts and

the color

orange.

algebra angred me,

opera sickened me,

charlie chaplin was a

fake

and flowers were for

pansies.

peace and happiness to me

were signs of

inferiority,

tenants of the weak

and

addled

mind.

but as I went on with

my alley fights,

my suicidal years,

my passage through

any number of

women-it gradually

began to occur to

me

that I wasn't different

from the

others, I was the same,

they were all fulsome

with hatred,

glossed over with petty

grievances,

the men I fought in

alleys had hearts of stone.

everybody was nudging,

inching, cheating for

some insignificant

advantage,

the lie was the

weapon and the

plot was

empty,

darkness was the

dictator.

cautiously, I allowed

myself to feel good

at times.

I found moments of

peace in cheap

rooms

just staring at the

knobs of some

dresser

or listening to the

rain in the

dark.

the less I needed

the better I

felt.

maybe the other life had worn me

down.

I no longer found

glamour

in topping somebody

in conversation.

or in mounting the

body of some poor

drunken female

whose life had

slipped away into

sorrow.

I could never accept

life as it was,

i could never gobble

down all its

poisons

but there were parts,

tenuous magic parts

open for the

asking.

I re formulated

I don't know when,

date, time, all

that

but the change

occurred.

something in me

relaxed, smoothed

out.

i no longer had to

prove that I was a

man,

I didn't have to prove

anything.

I began to see things:

coffee cups lined up

behind a counter in a

cafe.

or a dog walking along

a sidewalk.

or the way the mouse

on my dresser top

stopped there

with its body,

its ears,

its nose,

it was fixed,

a bit of life

caught within itself

and its eyes looked

at me

and they were

beautiful.

then- it was

gone.

I began to feel good,

I began to feel good

in the worst situations

and there were plenty

of those.

like say, the boss

behind his desk,

he is going to have

to fire me.

I've missed too many

days.

he is dressed in a

suit, necktie, glasses,

he says, 'I am going

to have to let you go'

'it's all right' I tell

him.

He must do what he

must do, he has a

wife, a house, children,

expenses, most probably

a girlfriend.

I am sorry for him

he is caught.

I walk onto the blazing

sunshine.

the whole day is

mine

temporarily,

anyhow.

(the whole world is at the

throat of the world,

everybody feels angry,

short-changed, cheated,

everybody is despondent,

disillusioned)

I welcomed shots of

peace, tattered shards of

happiness.

I embraced that stuff

like the hottest number,

like high heels, breasts,

singing,the

works.

(don't get me wrong,

there is such a thing as cockeyed optimism

that overlooks all

basic problems just for

the sake of

itself-

this is a shield and a

sickness.)

The knife got near my

throat again,

I almost turned on the

gas

again

but when the good

moments arrived

again

I didn't fight them off

like an alley

adversary.

I let them take me,

I luxuriated in them,

I made them welcome

home.

I even looked into

the mirror

once having thought

myself to be

ugly,

I now liked what

I saw, almost

handsome, yes,

a bit ripped and

ragged,

scares, lumps,

odd turns,

but all in all,

not too bad,

almost handsome,

better at least than

some of those movie

star faces

like the cheeks of

a baby's

butt.

and finally I discovered

real feelings of

others,

unheralded,

like lately,

like this morning,

as I was leaving,

for the track,

i saw my wife in bed,

just the

shape of

her head there

(not forgetting

centuries of the living

and the dead and

the dying,

the pyramids,

Mozart dead

but his music still

there in the

room, weeds growing,

the earth turning,

the tote board waiting for

me)

I saw the shape of my

wife's head,

she so still,

I ached for her life,

just being there

under the

covers.

I kissed her in the

forehead,

got down the stairway,

got outside,

got into my marvelous

car,

fixed the seatbelt,

backed out the

drive.

feeling warm to

the fingertips,

down to my

foot on the gas

pedal,

I entered the world

once

more,

drove down the

hill

past the houses

full and empty

of

people,

I saw the mailman,

honked,

he waved

back

at me.