I have sat opposite the parents of troubled, difficult and often frighteningly bright teenagers for fifteen years. I am also the mother of three girls in their late teens and early twenties.
There’s a peculiar arithmetic used by many mothers I know, myself included on a bad day: help received feels like a debt, help given feels like an obligation, and somehow both columns end up in the red.
Many of us will recognise in ourselves or others, something akin to this, ‘I’m not that bad. I still have a spouse/house/job.’ My behaviour has at times been exotic, but I haven’t been featured in the Daily Mail.
Cognitive behavioural therapy disabuses you of the notion that your brain is always a wise sage with your best interests at heart. Sometimes, often even, said brain is a deeply committed gossip columnist, with private access to your darkest inner monologue.
Perfectionists like me, pretend, as much to ourselves as to others, that we are in the noble pursuit of excellence. We opine the importance of high standards and distinction.
