By Gabor Maté | Full article on: https://www.mariashriversundaypaper.com/dr-gabor-mate/
Picture this: At the tender age of seventy-one, six years before this writing, I arrive back in Vancouver from a speaking jaunt to Philadelphia. The talk was successful, the audience enthusiastic, my message about addiction and trauma’s impact on people’s lives warmly received.
Descending over Vancouver’s pristine sea-to-sky panorama, I am a regular Little Jack Horner in my corner of the plane, suffused with a “what a good boy am I” glow. As we touch down and begin to taxi to the gate, the text from my wife, Rae, lights up the tiny screen: “Sorry. I haven’t left home yet. Do you still want me to come?” I stiffen, satisfaction displaced by rage. “Never mind,” I dictate tersely into the phone. Embittered, I disembark, clear customs, and take a taxi home, all of a twenty-minute ride door-to-door. Seeing Rae, I growl a hello that is more accusation than greeting, and scarcely look at her. In fact, I barely make eye contact for the next twenty-four hours. When addressed, I utter little more than brief, monotone grunts. My head is averted, the upper part of my face is tense and rigid, and my jaw is in a perma-clench.
Read a full article on: https://www.mariashriversundaypaper.com/dr-gabor-mate/
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