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Mindsight
 
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Mindsight [Kindle Edition]

Daniel Siegel
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Produktbeschreibungen

Pressestimmen

"Siegel's clinical explanations makes fascinating reading." Psychologist,The 'Mindsight' is a literary MRI: a mind- blowing book that will change the way you think about the way you think.' Arianna Huffington - Editor-in-Chief of the Huffington Post

Kurzbeschreibung

Daniel Siegel coined the term 'mindsight' to describe the innovative integration of brain science with the practice of psychotherapy. Using interactive examples and case histories from his clinical practice, Dr Siegel shows how mindsight can be applied to alleviate a range of psychological and interpersonal problems. With warmth and humour, he shows us how to observe the working of our minds, allowing us to understand why we think, feel, and act the way we do, and how, by following the proper steps, we can literally change the wiring and architecture of our brains.

Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende

Daniel Siegel is a clinical professor of psychiatry at UCLA and co-director of the Mindful Awareness Center there. He also founded and directs the Mindsight Institute and runs popular seminars for neuroscience professionals. He is the author of Parenting from the Inside Out and the internationally acclaimed professional texts The Mindful Brain and The Developing Mind.

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Chapter One



A Broken Brain, a Lost Soul

The Triangle of Well-Being


Barbara's family might never have come for therapy if seven-year-old Leanne hadn't stopped talking in school. Leanne was Barbara's middle child, between Amy, who was fourteen, and Tommy, who was three. They had all taken it hard when their mother was in a near-fatal car accident. But it wasn't until Barbara returned home from the hospital and rehabilitation center that Leanne became "selectively mute." Now she refused to speak with anyone outside the family-including me.

In our first weekly therapy sessions, we spent our time in silence, playing some games, doing pantomimes with puppets, drawing, and just being together. Leanne wore her dark hair in a single jumbled ponytail, and her sad brown eyes would quickly dart away whenever I looked directly at her. Our sessions felt stuck, her sadness unchanging, the games we played repetitive. But then one day when we were playing catch, the ball rolled to the side of the couch and Leanne discovered my video player and screen. She said nothing, but the sudden alertness of her expression told me her mind had clicked on to something.

The following week Leanne brought in a videotape, walked over to the video machine, and put it into the slot. I turned on the player and her smile lit up the room as we watched her mother gently lift a younger Leanne up into the air, again and again, and then pull her into a huge, enfolding hug, the two of them shaking with laughter from head to toe. Leanne's father, Ben, had captured on film the dance of communication between parent and child that is the hallmark of love: We connect with each other through a give-and-take of signals that link us from the inside out. This is the joy-filled way in which we come to share each other's minds.

Next the pair swirled around on the lawn, kicking the brilliant yellow and burnt-orange leaves of autumn. The mother-daughter duet approached the camera, pursed lips blowing kisses into the lens, and then burst out in laughter. Five-year-old Leanne shouted, "Happy birthday, Daddy!" at the top of her lungs, and you could see the camera shake as her father laughed along with the ladies in his life. In the background Leanne's baby brother, Tommy, was napping in his stroller, snuggled under a blanket and surrounded by plush toys. Leanne's older sister, Amy, was off to the side engrossed in a book.

"That's how my mom used to be when we lived in Boston," Leanne said suddenly, the smile dropping from her face. It was the first time she had spoken directly to me, but it felt more like I was overhearing her talk to herself. Why had Leanne stopped talking?

It had been two years since that birthday celebration, eighteen months since the family moved to Los Angeles, and twelve months since Barbara suffered a severe brain injury in her accident-a head-on collision. Barbara had not been wearing her seat belt that evening as she drove their old Mustang to the local store to get some milk for the kids. When the drunk driver plowed into her, her forehead was forced into the steering wheel. She had been in a coma for weeks following the accident.

After she came out of the coma, Barbara had changed in dramatic ways. On the videotape I saw the warm, connected, and caring person that Barbara had been. But now, Ben told me, she "was just not the same Barbara anymore." Her physical body had come home, but Barbara herself, as they had known her, was gone.

During Leanne's next visit I asked for some time alone with her parents. It was clear that what had been a close relationship between Barbara and Ben was now profoundly stressed and distant. Ben was patient and kind with Barbara and seemed to care for her deeply, but I could sense his despair. Barbara just stared off as we talked, made little eye contact with either of us, and seemed to lack interest in the conversation. The damage to her forehead had been repaired by plastic surgery, and although she had been left with motor skills that were somewhat slow and clumsy, she actually looked quite similar, in outward appearance, to her image on the videotape. Yet something huge had changed inside.

Wondering how she experienced her new way of being, I asked Barbara what she thought the difference was. I will never forget her reply: "Well, I guess if you had to put it into words, I suppose I'd say that I've lost my soul."

Ben and I sat there, stunned. After a while, I gathered myself enough to ask Barbara what losing her soul felt like.

"I don't know if I can say any more than that," she said flatly. "It feels fine, I guess. No different. I mean, just the way things are. Just empty. Things are fine."

We moved on to practical issues about care for the children, and the session ended.

A Damaged Brain

It wasn't clear yet how much Barbara could or would recover. Given that only a year had passed since the accident, much neural repair was still possible. After an injury, the brain can regain some of its function and even grow new neurons and create new neural connections, but with extensive damage it may be difficult to retrieve the complex abilities and personality traits that were dependent on the now destroyed neural structures.

Neuroplasticity is the term used to describe this capacity for creating new neural connections and growing new neurons in response to experience. Neuroplasticity is not just available to us in youth: We now know that it can occur throughout the lifespan. Efforts at rehabilitation for Barbara would need to harness the power of neuroplasticity to grow the new connections that might be able to reestablish old mental functions. But we'd have to wait awhile for the healing effects of time and rehabilitation to see how much neurological recovery would be possible.

My immediate task was to help Leanne and her family understand how someone could be alive and look the same yet have become so radically different in the way her mind functioned. Ben had told me earlier that he did not know how to help the children deal with how Barbara had changed; he said that he could barely understand it himself. He was on double duty, working, managing the kids' schedules, and making up for what Barbara could no longer do. This was a mother who had delighted in making homemade Halloween costumes and Valentine's Day cupcakes. Now she spent most of the day watching TV or wandering around the neighborhood. She could walk to the grocery store, but even with a list she would often come home empty-handed. Amy and Leanne didn't mind so much that she cooked a few simple meals over and over again. But they were upset when she forgot their special requests, things they'd told her they liked or needed for school. It was as if nothing they said to her really registered.

As our therapy sessions continued, Barbara usually sat quietly, even when she was alone with me, although her speech was intact. Occasionally she'd suddenly become agitated at an innocent comment from Ben, or yell if Tommy fidgeted or Leanne twirled her ponytail around her finger. She might even erupt after a silence, as if some internal process was driving her. But most of the time her expression seemed frozen, more like emptiness than depression, more vacuous than sad. She seemed aloof and unconcerned, and I noticed that she never spontaneously touched either her husband or her children. Once, when three-year-old Tommy climbed onto her lap, she briefly put her hand on his leg as if repeating some earlier pattern of behavior, but the warmth had gone out of the gesture.

When I saw the children without their mother, they let me know how they felt. "She just doesn't care about us like she used to," Leanne said. "And she doesn't ever ask us anything about ourselves," Amy added with sadness and irritation. "She's just plain selfish. She doesn't...
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