From the book.
When she demands that he eat foods he dislikes, he learns that his tastes are beside the point. He will swallow what he is fed, period. He will pretend not to mind. And, once he turns himself completely inside out psychologically, he will actually enjoy it. When she forces him to nap when he would prefer to play or read, he learns his internal clock is broken, and that he must look to others to know when he is tired. When she lets him cry himself to sleep rather than comforting him, he learns that his loneliness and protests and sadness and tears are to no avail—ignored, useless, as though not even real. And he will soon stop feeling those feelings and be silent at bedtime, already an expert at putting his desperation and anger to sleep. When she stops talking to him for hours or days when he disappoints her, he cannot miss the terrifying symbol that she has the capacity to cut him out of her life, and to effectively end his. And he will strive—swear a blood oath, if necessary—to never let her down. If he ever shows her how angry he is becoming, she might tell him he has no right to feel that way and should “leave her house” if he isn’t happy with the way she runs it. And, terrified at being cast out to fend for himself, he will disguise his curling lip or swallow his harsh words or learn to ignore the clenching of his jaw, and bury his rage deep inside him. When he laughs at something, she can shake her head quizzically, as though there is nothing funny at all, and he will learn not to trust his sense of humor, to resist smiling or laughing at things that amuse him. He will instead check the faces of others to know precisely when they are beginning to smile, so he can mimic their expressions, and laugh when they laugh. “We have exactly the same sense of humor,” he will tell them. And they will believe they are with a blood brother. When she tells him enough times that he “makes no sense,” he will start to believe her express any opinions, instead soliciting the ideas of others, and restating them as his own. “We think alike,” he will tell them. And they will believe they have found a kindred spirit. He will slowly kill himself off, and become a person imitating a person, a hunter-gatherer of the “emotions” and facial expressions and ideas that will receive the best reception, that will get him some of what he needs from a world he has learned is unfeeling and unpredictable and cruel and potentially lethal. He will start down the road to sociopathy. And there are so many more ways a mother could push a child there, from his earliest years. She could force him to use the toilet when he is resistant to doing so, then ridicule or punish him when he fails to harness his bodily functions perfectly to her will. She could simply fail to show any joy at signs of his developing personhood—his favorite color, favorite song, favorite animal, favorite food or piece of clothing or storybook. “Green?” she could ask, with a shrug. “You like green? I always thought it was such a boring color.” And from that day forward, he will hate the color green. He will ask his roommates or friends or girlfriends the colors they like and profess to like the very same ones. How coincidental. How lucky to find such a perfect friend, or a lover so much like you. She could disagree with him about reality—the color of a shirt, whether a promise was ever made to go somewhere after school, when a period of punishment was slated to end.