第一幕：华尔兹

我推开诊间的门，迎这位母亲进来，回到柔软的沙发上，这定期四十五分钟的坐下、起来是我们解读思绪的仪式。她疲惫地靠着沙发，傍晚金色的夕阳从窗外洒进来，照在她的弱小的身子上，留下了长长的影子。我想好了这次要和她探讨的内容，刚刚坐下，她先开口了。

“还好你提前约了我。我被失眠袭击了，非常不好。一晚上都睡不着，只有在清晨才能迷糊一会儿，整天都昏昏沉沉的，实在太难受了。” 她面部扭曲，目光憔悴，“觉得活得都没意思了。”她有些哀求地补充道。

连续性失眠确实很让人崩溃，听她这么说我感觉有警钟响起。这么多年来，我陪伴她度过了很多艰难的时刻，但从未听过她说失眠。就连发现老公有外遇，撕破脸离婚，和亲友断交等一系列复杂的问题，她也能一夜长眠，明天的事明天再说。但世上很少有一种痛能和感觉将要被自己的孩子背弃相比，我感觉她正在迅速塌陷，沉在沼泽地里被这个漩涡吸了进去，我得赶快伸手拉她一把。我准备给她开一些助眠的药，让她身体和精神得以缓解，同时疗愈她内心的伤。

”我半睡半醒之间做了一个梦，梦到自己在高速公路上转，怎么转也转不出去，找不到回家的路。手机丢了，路上也没有人可以问，我被困住了，就这样突然惊醒。”她陈述着梦境，呼吸有些急促。

捕捉到她的潜意识在引导我们。身体的深层记忆正在蠢蠢欲动，那是过去的自己向现在发出的讯号，等待我们去探索。我感觉机会来了。我让她再次闭上眼睛，在此刻感受被困住、迷失的感觉，“你能告诉我这个感觉停留在身体的哪个部位里？”

她说是胸口，闷闷的，感觉像有石头压着。我接着问她，你问问自己的身体，这个感觉，它曾经出现是在什么时候。不要多想，脑海里最先浮现出的那个画面就是对的。

只用了几秒钟的时间，她就睁开眼睛说，她看到了十五岁的自己。

我们瞬间穿越五十年的时空，回到湖南农村。空气中弥漫着阴冷潮湿的寒意，还未成年的她正坐在小板凳上，在灶屋里煽火做饭。她要负责全家妈妈、爸爸、姐姐、和两个侄儿的所有起居。每天要做饭、洗碗、洗衣、打扫。她只想把家里的活快快地全部做完，才能赶紧去邻居家看电视，不想错过她最爱的连续剧。那是她当时唯一的乐趣。白天，她要去工厂上班，沉闷重复的工作让她的身体机械化地运行。每天两点一线地从工厂到家里，穿梭于萧瑟的田野，遥远的天际线是一道锁上了的门，锁住了她所有的可能。她眼神黯淡，孤立无援，无法反抗，只有乖乖服从当时的大人们，幻想着何时可以逃离那里，得以解脱。这样的生活弥漫了她整个童年。

• 医生解读：我们在这里可以运用了内在家庭系统疗法 (internal family system)来治疗过去的创伤记忆，以重新体验的方法来跳过只是以思维的方式对创伤的理解，重塑对过去发生事件的解读。新的解读可以带给我们不一样的自我认识。

这个记忆被封印了很久，这是她第一次和那时的自己直面。她心中对自己充满怜惜，原来她根本还是个孩子，却要担起家里的重担。没有人对她表示感谢，反而家里人常常冷言冷语，对她多有责骂。想到这里她已经泪流满面。多年前的经历在此刻恍如昨日，她看着曾经的自己，稚嫩的脸庞既陌生又熟悉。

我让她把心中涌起的怜悯化成温暖的爱，呵护当年幼小无助的自己，让彼时的她感到自己值得被爱。她不再是旁观者，此时的她已经有力量去帮助自己和疗愈曾经的伤口。在我的引导下，我让她发挥想象力，和心里受伤的小女孩互动。她拍拍坐在小板凳上的自己，打声招呼，陪她一起切菜和面，年幼的她好奇地问 ”你是谁？” 

此时的她答道，“我就是未来的你，你不再孤单，我来帮助你了。” 年幼的自己仿佛等这一刻等了很久。我再让她学着和她自己心里的小女孩对话，她接着说，“孩子，谢谢你为家人的劳动，你辛苦了。”

小女孩听了，仿佛欲言又止。我又鼓励她继续说，“你的苦我都知道，我比世界上任何人都理解你。你再也不是没人爱的孩子，我会一直陪着你。” 

小女孩眼角泛起了泪光，问道，“后来的我怎么样了？”此时的她告诉小女孩，她走出了村子，还走向了更广阔的世界，过上了自由富足的生活，她可以不用再辛苦干活了。

“我想和你走！”小女孩说。“那我们走！我带你去你所有想去的地方。” 她坚定地牵起小女孩的手，从此做她的保护者，她们一起笑着迈出那道天际间紧锁的门，从湖南农村的灶屋回到她纽约舒适的公寓。她拯救了自己心里那个受伤的小孩，泪水此刻正在洗净幼年的伤口，胸口闷压的不适感消失了，取而代之的是拾回自己的治愈和欣喜。原来在成为温暖的母亲之前，她先要学会如何给自己心里受伤的小女孩当一位慈爱的母亲。

意识回到了诊间的四壁。这段回忆探索像是一场地震，震开了时间的口子，震平了心里的动荡，震碎了冻住的伤痛。我们习惯遗忘不堪回首的往事，让时间冲淡感受。但等我们麻木了，那个曾经受伤的自己也被遗留在了过去，在时间里冻住。即使在封印之后，过去的我们还是会悄悄留下一些面包屑，期待有一天将来的我们可以顺着线索，找回完整的自己。

• 医生解读：当病人可以正面过去的创伤时，也是加入其他技能训练干预的最佳时机。我想这是一个好机会可以教她用语言表达对爱的体验的重要性。

要她理解，她必须体会那是什么感觉。我知道她还在等，等待那句等不来的道歉和解释。她心里对爸爸没有帮助她寻求工厂外更好的工作还耿耿于怀。在这个时空倒流的诊间里，我想还原一下她在原生家庭里的缺失的体验。

于是我问她，“如果当初你爸爸对你说：‘孩子，你求我为你工作的事情说情，爸爸理解这对你很重要，但是很抱歉，我没办法去做这件事。爸爸也觉得很对不起你，我有我的苦衷。’

同样的，如果当初你缺席的妈妈也对你说：‘孩子，妈妈没能好好地照顾你，还让你分担了过多的家务，让你受苦了，我感觉很抱歉。’

这会让你有什么不一样的感受吗？“

她听了，点了点头，似乎明白了。

爱的需求其实很简单，就是被尊重，被共情，被理解。往往并不一定要对方为我们扭转局面，把摆在我们面前的困难全部解决。而是让我们深深地感受到自己被重视，被爱，无需猜测，让我们的内心充满力量。

“ 我有个新练习给你，我发现你和女儿的对话每次都会留下一些没说的话。比如：‘对不起’，‘我爱你’，‘谢谢你’，‘我感觉’，等等。你们通常沟通只说要做的事情，但没有说背后的情感。”我解释道。

这些三个字的话仿佛缺席了几代人，在家的领域里，沉默地震耳欲聋。回到母亲和女儿的关系中，我觉得她们还有机会去填补这个空白。我该如何引导她，不只是用行动表达爱，也能用语言说出来？

突然，我临机一动，决定把问题简化，当成填空造句题。我解释道，你试试这样：

1）先说自己要做什么，

2）可能是出于什么感觉想做，

3）结尾加上这里面其中的三句话：“妈妈知道”，“妈妈理解”，“妈妈爱你”。

例如，“我礼拜天会给你送饭，因为我担心你最近吃的不健康，妈妈爱你。” 而不只说：“我做好了饭，给你送过去吧？” 这两句话看似是表达了同一个意思，但是前者是用感情去交流，而后者只是在说送饭这件事情。

“不一定非要做到手指磨破，千里迢迢端着饭盒，其实可以一句话，情感已经到位，没吃饭心已经喂饱了。”我用夸张的语气把她逗乐了，气氛轻松起来。

“另外 ‘妈妈知道’，‘妈妈理解’，‘妈妈爱你’，这几句话可以反复说，能在什么时候加，就在什么时候加，不嫌多，只嫌少，”我叮嘱她说。

母亲若有所思，她说从来没有人这样教过她。她也真的不知道该怎么表达自己的情感。有了这个公式，她可以试试。

时间已经超过看诊的四十五分钟，但是有时最后几分钟是事半功倍的。她谢过我之后，推开门离去了。

在这静止而熟悉的沙发上，我们行了几万里路，跨越了几十年的时间，又回到了现在。为了让自己重新整理回到当下，我起身走走，倒了些水，浇浇角落的绿植。大大的一盆琴叶榕，贪婪地眷恋着夕阳的最后一缕金色的余光。它静静地伫立在那里，让我感到踏实安稳，仿佛在默默吸收着空气中遗留的情绪，再轻轻地吐出一口柔软的疗愈之气。

Act I: The Waltz

I open the office door and welcome my patient in. We return to the soft couch—this ritual of sitting down and getting up for our regular forty-five minutes has become a ceremony for decoding the mind. She leans back, exhausted. The golden light of sunset pours through the window, casting long shadows across her frail frame. I come prepared with what I want to explore today, but before I can speak, she begins.

“Good thing you scheduled me earlier. Insomnia hit me hard. I couldn’t sleep at all—only dozed off for a bit in the early morning. I’ve been groggy all day. It’s unbearable.” Her face tenses, her eyes dull with fatigue. “I honestly don’t see the point in going on,” she adds pleadingly.

Chronic insomnia can push someone to a breaking point. Hearing her say this sets off alarm bells. I’ve accompanied her through many painful chapters, but she has never mentioned insomnia—not even during the messy divorce, or the estrangement from close friends and family that ensued. Even then, she could sleep through the night. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow,” she used to say. But few things are as destabilizing as the feeling that your child may abandon you. I can sense her collapsing fast, pulled into a swamp of grief. I need to reach out and give her a hand—quickly.

I make a note to prescribe something to help her sleep, hoping to ease her body and mind so we can begin to tend to the deeper wound.

“I had a dream, somewhere between waking and sleeping. I was driving in circles on the highway, unable to find the exit, unable to get home. I’d lost my phone, and there was no one around to ask. I was stuck. I woke up suddenly.”

Her breath quickens as she recounts the dream.

I sense her subconscious leading the way. Deep memories stored in the body are beginning to stir—signals from her past self reaching out to the present, waiting to be explored. I know the moment has come. I gently ask her to close her eyes and tune into the feeling of being trapped and lost. “Can you tell me where in your body this feeling is sitting?” I ask.

“My chest,” she replies. “It’s tight—like a heavy stone is pressing down on it.”

I continue, “Ask your body: When have you felt this way before? Don’t overthink it. Whatever comes to mind first is the right place to begin.”

Within seconds, she opens her eyes and says she sees herself as a fifteen-year-old.

In an instant, we travel back fifty-five years to a rural village in Hunan, China. The air was damp and cold, heavy with a wintry chill. She was just a girl then, sitting on a small wooden stool in the kitchen, stoking the fire to prepare a meal. She was responsible for the entire household—her mother, father, older sister, and two nephews. Every day, she cooked, washed dishes, did laundry, and cleaned.

All she wanted was to finish the chores quickly so she could run over to the neighbor’s house to catch her favorite television drama—the only joy she had back then. By day, she worked at a factory, where the dull, repetitive tasks turned her body into a machine. Her life was a narrow track between the factory and home, crossing barren fields under a distant horizon that felt like a locked gate—sealing away all her possibilities.

Her eyes were dim, her spirit isolated and powerless. She couldn’t resist the demands of the adults around her. She could only obey, silently dreaming of escape, yearning for freedom. Days like this filled her entire childhood.

This memory has been sealed away for so long. It is the first time she comes face to face with her younger self. Her heart swells with compassion—for the child she had been, burdened far too early. No one had ever thanked her. Instead, the household met her efforts with cold words and harsh criticism.

Tears are already flowing down her cheeks. Though the events happened decades ago, they pulse with a startling immediacy. She gazes at the young girl she once was—a face both distant and achingly familiar, like a dream she had almost forgotten.

I am about to use a trauma technique to work with her painful memories—not merely understanding them through thoughts, but guiding her to re-experience the past with empowerment. In doing so, it can reshape her role away from victimhood to gain autonomy and rush in a new understanding of the present self. I feel like she is ready for the work.

With gentle voice, I invite her to let the compassion in her heart transform into warm, protective love that can embrace the child she once was and let that child feel she is worthy of love. No longer a bystander to her own pain, she now holds the power to reach out and heal her inner child. Under my voice prompt and in her mind’s eye, she gently taps her younger self on the shoulder, who is still sitting on the small wooden stool. She greets the young girl and joins her in chopping vegetables and kneading dough. The girl looks at her with curiosity and asks, “Who are you?”

She replies, “I’m your future self. You’re no longer alone—I’ve come to help you.”

The young girl responds with delight. It is as if the child has been waiting for this moment for a very long time.

I guide her to use her imagination to say, “Child, thank you for all you did for the family. You worked so hard.”

The girl listens, as if on the verge of saying something but holding back.

I encourage her to go on: “I know every hardship you’ve endured. I understand you better than anyone else in the world. I will always be with you and love you.”

Tears well up in the girl’s eyes. She asks softly, “What happens to me later?”

She tells the girl that she leaves the village and steps into a bigger world, living a life of freedom and abundance—one where she no longer has to labor so tirelessly.

“I want to go with you!” the girl exclaims.

“Then let’s go,” she says gently. “I’ll take you everywhere you’ve ever dreamed of.”

With resolve, she takes the girl’s hand. From that moment on, she becomes her protector. Together, they laugh as they step beyond the tightly sealed horizon, leaving the rural kitchen of Hunan behind and returning to her cozy apartment in New York City. In rescuing the wounded young girl within her, she also reconnects with a part of herself long buried. She becomes the savior she has waited for her whole life. As it turns out, to become a warm mother to her daughter, she first has to learn how to be a loving mother to the young girl within herself.

Tears wash over old childhood wounds, and the tight, suffocating pain in her chest dissolves. In its place comes a sense of healing—and reclaimed joy.

She opens her eyes and her awareness returns to the four walls of my office.

This journey into memory feels like an earthquake—rupturing the surface of time, settling the inner turbulence, and shattering the frozen pain. We are used to forgetting the things too painful to revisit, hoping time will dull out the feelings. But when we go numb, we leave that wounded part of ourselves behind—frozen in the past. And yet, even sealed away, our younger selves leave behind breadcrumbs, hoping that one day, we’ll follow the trail and find our way back—to wholeness.

She is able to confront the trauma that has happened to her, bringing down the old narrative. Maybe it’s an opportunity to build something new. I go back to what I intended to teach her at the beginning of the session: the importance of verbal affirmation as a love language.

To help her understand, she first has to feel what it’s like to receive it. I know she is still waiting—waiting for an apology and explanation that will never come. Deep down, she still harbors resentment toward her father for not listening and helping her seek better work opportunities outside the factory. In this space where time flows backward, maybe I can recreate the missing experiences for her.

I ask her, “What if your father had said to you: ‘My child, I know you begged me to speak up for you about your job. I understand how much that meant to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it. I had my own struggles, and I feel terrible about that.’

And what if your absent mother had said: ‘Child, I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to take good care of you, and that I placed too many burdens of housework on your shoulders. You’ve suffered a great deal. I’m so sorry.’

Would those words change the way you feel about them?”

She listens and nods. Something in her begins to soften.

The need for love is often simple: to be respected, to be seen, to be understood. We don’t always need circumstances to change, or for problems to be solved. The world outside may remain the same—but when the heart feels full, when we know we are valued and loved, the guessing stops. The grasping eases. Something within settles.

“I have a new practice for you,” I continue. “I’ve noticed that in your conversations with your daughter, some words are often left unsaid. Words like: ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘Thank you,’ or ‘I feel…’ You often talk only about tasks that need to be done, but not the feelings behind why you’d do them.”

These three-word phrases have been absent for generations in the space of her home and family. The silence is deafening. But in her relationship with her daughter, I believe there is still time to fill the void. How can I guide her to express her love not just through actions, but through words too?

Just then, I have an idea. Maybe there is a way to simplify this—like following a formula, a-fill-in the blank what you are feeling quiz question. I explain it to her:

“One, you start the sentence with what you’re going to do.

Two, you then share the feeling behind the action.

And three, you end with one or more of these phrases: “Mom knows,” “Mom understands,” “Mom loves you.”

For example:

“I’ll bring you lunch on Sunday because I’m worried you haven’t been eating well. I love you.”

Instead of simply saying:

“I made lunch. I’ll drop it off.”

Both convey the same action—but the former communicates on an emotional plane, while the latter just talks about the task.

“You don’t have to wear your fingers to the bone, trekking miles with a lunchbox. Sometimes, a single sentence can nourish more than food ever could.”

I exaggerate playfully to make her laugh. She is amused and plays along.

“And those three phrases—‘Mom knows,’ ‘Mom understands,’ ‘Mom loves you’—you can repeat them as often as you want. Say them every chance you get. There’s no such thing as too much—only too little,” I remind her.

She thinks about what I said for a moment, and then tells me no one has ever taught her this before. She didn’t know how to talk like this. To her, it feels odd to not be straightforward. She needs to make extra effort to not assume the other person knows what she means. But with this formula, it is easier to give it a try.

Our forty-five minutes have already run over, but sometimes, the most powerful work happens in the final moments. She thanks me and walks out the door.

On that still, familiar couch, we have traveled thousands of miles, traversed many decades, and returned to the here and now. To steady my breath in the present moment, I walk slowly around the room, then pour a bit of water into the green plant in the corner—a large fiddle-leaf fig, its broad leaves reaching hungrily toward the last golden sliver of sunlight. It stands in stillness, anchoring me, as if inhaling the remnants of the day’s emotions and exhaling a soft healing breath in return. (to be continued)