health

PERCEPTION & PERSPECTIVE

PERCEPTION AND PERSPECTIVE

It so happens that I often speak with men who are perplexed at how to handle their partner’s foul moods.

“When she’s in a pissy mood, it throws me off my game,” they will say. It follows that they feel significant disregard from her in the home when she’s such a frame of mind.

Think for a moment about the word disregard.

You already know it means to NOT pay attention to something or someone, to ignore. Get a sense of how her emotional state affects you.

If you find her mood bothersome, unsettling, distracting, etc., and that it preoccupies your thoughts and feelings, ask yourself why that is.

When else have you felt this way?

When is the first time those feelings made their way into your awareness?

At what other time did you find your body and being negatively affected by someone else?

You might even body trace your present feelings to the very first time you remember feeling these sensations.

Now, think of how these are HER negative feelings…  and ask yourself how those feelings are somehow influencing and even directing your own feelings today.

Why is that? How is that?

How can it be that you, a separate person from her, are suddenly taking on her foul mood. I know, I know, it’s as if we are following the contagion of a yawn.

Her negative mood says jump and in response, your nervous system says, “How high?”

(See the Taming Shame course for a full dissection and strategies around this topic).

The biggest mistake a man makes in those situations is taking things personally.

He does it automatically. It’s subconscious, his nervous system putting out a hypothesis which has worked in the past… for him to evaluate and possibly adopt in the present.

The thing is, to take on her negativity, he must relegate who he is presently to a former version of himself.

In all likelihood, to a time of his life when his very existence depended on the kindness and goodwill of a powerful figure. That’s usually mom (though not always).

In those long ago moments, he may have had fear struck into the center of his heart. Let me explain.

I have two older brothers born 11 months or so apart. This makes them Irish Twins (as siblings born within 12 months of each other are known).

This is something common in Irish Catholic families. My very devoted Ma had ten pregnancies in 12 years (bless her Irish Newfie heart).

A daughter soon followed the birth of my brothers, but she died in the days after she was born. It was the 1950s, and ma blamed painting the basement stairs with lead paint during her pregnancy for losing the child.

I was born next: 9 pounds 10 ounces of maternal redemption.

As a youngster, I longed to be part of an older boy’s trio. In a family of eleven, you needed allies.

The gap between my age and my two older brothers caused by the birth and loss of deceased sister Marie Claire (the name Ma had picked for her) made it difficult for them to take me seriously.

I was very much the lesser brother, never fully accepted but tolerated, especially if I was useful. My brother once told me that all they had to do to get me to act on something was dare me. A double dare meant it was as good as done.

Strive as I might to belong, equality wasn’t possible. The age hierarchy was too great an influence.

Though, when it came time for punishments, an exception was made. After all, I couldn’t very well disown them after striving to be like them and so, I was often lumped in with them when things went wrong.

I remember ma would get pissed at my older brothers, Duncan and Stephen, especially the eldest, Duncan, and threaten to send us all off to a boy’s reformatory in Alfred, Ontario.

We knew it existed because Mr. Bougie down the street reportedly worked there.

I was six or seven… and she’d say she was going to call Mr. Bougie and send us off… and I believed her. When I first got wind of it I even remember asking her if she was serious and in her frustration she insisted that she was.

Oh the horror!  I expected the boy’s prison van to pull up at any moment and take me away. What did I know?

It was one of the many Sword of Damocles scenarios of my childhood.

Talk about abandonment fear.

That weakness lingered in the back of my emotional self as an adult. A similar thing happens in an infinite number of ways to countless men.

Parents install abandonment fear in children, mostly with good intentions and sometimes in frustration, for the sake of survival and socialization.

A three-year old will walk onto a busy road unawares until we drive home the idea that a car might run them over.

They ask what would happen. We tell them it would hurt and may kill them. More importantly, that we may never see them again and this would make us sad.

We may repeat that theme for years to effect change in the kid’s roadside protocol so they look both ways before attempting to cross a street.

It is leverage that works.

So next time you find yourself a little out of sorts when she’s out of sorts, stop and track its true source.

Almost always it’s not what’s before you. Rather it’s a prediction from long ago coming back in case it’s useful once more in the present.

The trick is to use perception and perspective.

You must have the perception to know you are triggered by your partner beyond what the circumstances call for and realize the predictive nervous system is doing its thing.

Keep in mind, all you own in life as an adult are your thoughts, feelings and behaviours.

How is it you, as a grown man, are controlled as if you are an emotional puppet?

By doing so you may gain perspective.

I have long ago abandoned free will, so I am saying that with awareness you can exercise a little more “free won’t.”

You can put her remarks or foul mood or detachment into its proper context. Soon, you and I both may see it’s not about me or about you.

In fact, it’s more that her gifts sometimes turn on her.

Her fantastic powers of wider scope with heightened sensitivity to sickness and danger are often too much for her to bear and she suffers accordingly.

It means she sometimes finds herself in protection mode instead of connection mode.

The Quebec French up my way have a saying for that: “Nous avons tous les défauts de nos qualités.” We all have the faults of our qualities.

I guess we could say this is what is meant by “there is a price to pay for everything” and “nothing for nothing”.

The last thing I need to do is make things worse by failing to realize that she is temporarily offline.

So, if possible, I rescue her from her insanity with reassurance. What I won’t do is make it worse by becoming needy in the face of her discontent.

That’s like adding fuel to her fire.

LOL (I know you know it).

Instead, we can best tend to order in the kingdom and remain unflustered by her foul mood…

… and instead encourage her.

If necessary, I may hold up my hand and impose a limit. I’m nobody’s punching bag. Remember respect is earned or taken. The “wrong guy” signal, said with a calm smile, deflects her angst elsewhere.

But it is compassion that best serves you both. Compassion for myself and what might trigger me. Compassion for her as her gifts turn on her to create her discomfort.

Compassion is like that. It spreads. Seems to me the feminized culture complains we need more compassionate men. Kill two birds with one stone by starting with you.

Surely, we can do that for a partner. We can do that for ourselves. For us. For Team Human…

Only men can ensure love prevails in a home.

She can’t do it without you.

Men lead, women command…

Next time, use perception and perspective to rise up and remain a powerful man.

A powerful defender of life.

Could you do that?

Questions? Comments?

true and free…
cw

* want to talk about how you can manage this stuff on your own? Talk with me and let’s see what we can do together…

Book at https://go.oncehub.com/ChristopherWallace

SLEEP HORROR


SLEEP HORROR
Sleep in this morning? Needed it maybe? Not worried? Maybe you will “catch up” later? Good.

Perhaps you are on modern society’s treadmill, a pawn of the bankers and their capitalist soldiers using interest to create scarcity and competition. Like a junkie’s tolerance, their heroin is ever-increasing growth at any cost, never enough, more and more. That’s life, right? Can you keep this up?

Indeed, chances are for you there will be a  “personal reckoning” of some kind. You suspect this already. Sleep was your God-given right. It was your blessing from the universe: your dreams a therapist’s couch and an art school within the confines of your head.

That you are not alone in this struggle offers little comfort. “We die together,” might be our valiant stance. How honourable. For what cause was this again?

Best get on it. Why? Think you can scoff at your body like that and get away with it? Modernity is relatively new; Mother Nature is old. “Don’t be obtuse,” said the warden to the prisoner…

“Routinely sleeping less than six or seven hours a night demolishes your immune system, more than doubling your risk of cancer. Insufficient sleep is a key lifestyle factor determining whether or not you will develop Alzheimer’s disease. Inadequate sleep—even moderate reductions for just one week—disrupts blood sugar levels so profoundly that you would be classified as pre-diabetic. Short sleeping increases the likelihood of your coronary arteries becoming blocked and brittle, setting you on a path toward cardiovascular disease, stroke, and congestive heart failure. Fitting Charlotte Brontë’s prophetic wisdom that “a ruffled mind makes a restless pillow,” sleep disruption further contributes to all major psychiatric conditions, including depression, anxiety, and suicidality. (Walker, Matthew. Why We Sleep: Unlocking the Power of Sleep and Dreams (p. 3). Scribner)

Fuck me. Walker takes all the fun out of insomnia. Speaking of which, I suffered this way from about single digits until my 30s. Unluckily, once out my parent’s home at 15 years of age, I gained access to intoxicants to knock me out each night, from hashish to booze to heroin. I say knock me out because although I was unconscious, apparently sleep still evaded me. What did I know?

In my thirties, I temporarily gave up all that shit. Oh my, and insomnia returned. It was like meeting an old bully you thought was left behind years ago and then after transferring into a new school, you find them there, well-established and hanging with those you intend to make your friends.

I learned self-hypnosis and defeated insomnia. Defeated it. Although, I eventually allowed substance use to creep back into my life, I was a more of an intermittent user. Functional, until those last few years that is. Both these things were gifts. I solved that addiction riddle too. Defeated it.

It’s the dreams you see, you can’t escape them. And, for better or worse, we need them. I can sleep in a gas station parking lot with cars going by now. I almost slept through the birth of my second son sitting in a chair ten feet from the missus. “Wally, you’re going to miss it!” was her cry. I awoke to find her and her sister and the nurse giving me the look women give men for being men. Oh, I know that look so well.

“They went painlessly in their sleep,” should be everyone’s hope. To go out that way is to gift wrap the inevitable. Link up years of sleep deficits with how sleep tunes the brain up each night and your chances of facing significant mental decline increase exponentially. It could be the difference between dying horribly and dying healthfully in your sleep, your DNA clock simply having wound down to zero.

Rob yourself of sleep and you may face dark dementia days ahead. With dementia, your brain slowly breaks down, and the horror is you are aware of its every step into madness. The horror, yes. You see and feel yourself slowly getting stupider and there is nothing you can do about it. Stupider, yes.

Your frustration falls on sympathetic but capably deaf ears, speaking of which the voices of those you love become garbled. Garbled, yes. And this might make you mad, so angry you fight back, swinging wildly in self-defence and at other times in righteousness. Whereas most of your life you were occasionally wrong and corrected yourself with humility and an apology, now you are always wrong.

You might take a walk down the hallway of your locked ward, this institution where you now live. You see others and take a seat among them to rest. You put your hand on your cane to steady yourself as you sit. Someone gets up to leave and wants your cane. You refuse to give it up, a struggle ensues. You get the worst of it. You are 89 and both your eyes are blackened. The horror… it was their cane after all.

You just don’t understand…. Anything.

Your speech goes from full sentences down to phrases. You nod a lot at those who visit… if you have visitors at all. For a while, at times you read better than you hear so some take to writing notes for you, you know, so information can enter what’s left of your mind using a different pathway. Soon the letters on the pages might as well be Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Eventually, your confidence is so shot you are afraid to even venture a word and instead, stare silently doing your best to convey your mood with your eyes and facial expressions. A smile, a shrug, the odd eye-contact is what you are left with. You may feel like the family dog now, and so you sleep. You can still eat if it’s put in front of you, a lifetime of putting food to mouth not gone yet.

Until you are left staring straight ahead, in the stink from pissing and shitting yourself, great blistering red rashes burning your balls and ass. You scream in pain and lash out at your well-intentioned tormentors, your only salve the drugs you are given to knock you into unconsciousness once more. That’s when you shit yourself again and your torturous cycle of shame and humiliation begins anew.

The pain of your care awakens in you glimpses of injustice. These are triggered deep inside you as if you are being molested while mentally in a coma yet physically capable but weakening more by the day. It’s like you are immobile while being operated on without anesthetic, and your screams go unheard. Powerless, you are outnumbered, and alone.

You realize this is an awful way to go: and you never thought in a million years it would come to this. How can this be?  You are awake and it’s as if brain worms are slowly consuming your reason, but you can’t stop them. They are locked inside your head, slithering among your neurons, multiplying in your Glial spaces, swimming in your cerebrospinal fluid, laying eggs, building a hungry army of young consuming your brain whilst you are alive and listening. Oh, the horror.

Get your sleep. How will you make it a priority? How?

Stay powerful, never give up
cw

©CKWallace 2019 all rights reserved
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Lieutenant Commander H.C.Wallace (ret)
1929-2019
You’re life counted dad,
cw