Unaware we are even numb, we operate...and even love...on autopilot.
I was raised in a home of total calmness. There were no highs or lows, just a steady mellow environment. There was no drama, no conflict, no fighting, no teasing. But come to think of it, there was also no laughter or cheering, no hugging or affection, no praise or support.
When I met my husband, I was drawn to his theatrical nature. He was so animated, from his facial gymnastics to his vocal intensity. His enthusiasm was contagious. My face hurt from smiling and my sides ached from laughing. He cried during the first chick flick we watched together. And I was amazed by his gentleness with babies when offering mothers at church a reprieve. But his intensity was also laced with bitterness and vitriol. He was a man of extremes, and I played the calm crisis-manager who came to the rescue while he panicked over every little thing that went amiss. Eventually the very thing I had been drawn to became the thing than drove me away. I was disgusted by his emotional roller coaster, viewing him as a chaotic mess through my superior stoic lens.
After my divorce, I was relieved to meet MacGyver whose coolness matched my stoicism. He felt like home, and I relaxed into the familiar non-emotional regularity.
“My friends used to criticize me that I was too calm,” MacGyver told me when we met. “I don’t know why they thought I should be all dramatic. Isn’t it a good thing to be level-headed?”
“I find you are refreshingly easy-going,” I agreed. We connected on the fact that neither of us were extreme like our exes. Instead, we prided ourselves on controlling our emotions. Those who were emotional were weak; we were much stronger because we didn’t let things bother us. We had tough skin; we didn’t get easily offended.
But to the degree we stayed unmoved by anger or sadness, we also stayed unmoved by joy and excitement. MacGyver didn’t smile much, nor did he laugh. And the lightheartedness that I’d reclaimed after leaving my marriage soon died off again. The longer he and I were together, the lonelier I became. While I couldn’t put my finger on it at the time, the lack of our emotionality killed the relationship.
After we broke up, I fell into deep depression that brought me to therapy and healing work. It was at the beginning of this work that I paired up with a charismatic man who jump started my life. But he only allowed happy vibes…until his rages came, and I was relieved when the Hulk deserted me.
In his place came a much calmer man who mirrored the peace I’d earned in healing my emotional desolation. But it was only a mirror, as his lifetime of war-inflicted PTSD shattered the reflection. His stoicism crystallized. The kindness he had extended to me began to sour into passive aggression and snide remarks, whether directed at me or others. I began to wonder if something happened at work that caused his energy to shift, because his angry demeanor reminded me of the negativity of my ex-husband. People go through bouts of stress or depression that make them more easily triggered, so I wasn’t sure if this was situational or characteristic.
Driving through town, we stopped at a light. Up a few car-lengths, I was fascinated by the trailer hauling a food truck in the shape of a tea pot. It was painted pink and blue with a spout on the front and a cap on the top. It made me smile, thinking of the mad hatter tea parties in Alice in Wonderland.
I almost exclaimed “Wow, talk about curb appeal! That is such a creative innovation! If I knew where they were setting up shop, I’d certainly come check them out!”
Before I could open my mouth, Mr. PTSD snorted.
“What a monstrosity!” he said. “What idiot decided to create such an eye-sore?”
The light turned green and I kept my mouth shut. The entire drive, he was even more quiet than usual. His reticent nature started to make me uneasy. And it only grew worse from there.
Mr. PTSD’s kids were coming for a visit, and he wanted me to meet them. The entire weekend, the tension was incredibly thick.
“You knew we were going to go to church while you were here,” he said to his daughter. “Don’t you have another set of clothes?”
“Yes, but they don’t fit anymore,” she said blankly. She had steeled herself from his callousness.
“Fine,” he said gruffly. “Get in the car. We will go to Walmart and get you something to wear.”
The teenagers were quiet in the backseat while I felt trapped in the front. It was less what he said but how he came across. There was a stiff hollowness, and I felt my own body grow cold. I didn’t know these kids, but my heart twisted in empathy as I watched them stand at attention when in the presence of their dad and then slump into hopelessness when he wasn’t looking. I had no idea how these kids were holding it together in front of him.
“Their mom has a new boyfriend and she is such a mess. I don’t know why they won’t come live with me,” he said, going on to explain their mom’s dysfunction. “She told the bishop that she was scared of me and ran away before I came home from deployment. She’s such a liar, I never did anything to harm her or the kids. She made it all up to get money from the church….”
I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was growing uneasy and threatened in his presence. As soon as I got home from that visit, a heavy feeling descended on my chest. I started to cry like I’d just been bullied, but there had been no mean words directed at myself or at the kids.
Suddenly, I recognized it. I’d felt this detached stony energy before. It was a brick wall, appearing to be strong and dependable, but was in fact harsh and unforgiving. It was condemning without words, withholding of warmth, and barren of any emotional safety. Mr. PTSD reminded me of the home in which I grew up, raised by a stepdad who felt just like him. No, neither of them were actually harmful. But both of them had been raised by abusive men. Both were used to drill sergeants as authority figures. Both swore they would never become like those who bullied them. But neither were aware of how devoid they were of gentleness or compassion. Instead, they wore a chip on their shoulder, radiating the contempt of someone who felt they were wronged by the world and demanded perfection of others.
And just like that, my attraction transformed into disgust. I didn’t want someone that reminded me of home. I had changed my Spock-like nature so I was no longer in sync with a barren heart. My nervous system was now keenly aware of the abyss that I had once been so accustomed to. I was no longer comfortable with emotional unavailability. In fact, I was now repelled by it.
So when the same thing happened again in my next relationship, it was easier to identify.
During an argument, my partner took a deep breath and went quiet. I was feeling lied to, then invalidated, and now my threat response was heightened by a perceived wall.
“Can you tell me what you are experiencing right now?” I asked him.
“I am calm,” he said evenly.
“I don’t sense calm,” I said. “I’m actually feeling threatened.”
“I don’t see how you can feel threatened because I am not angry anymore.”
“It feels incongruent in my body. Your energy doesn’t match your appearance,” I responded, noticing that my body was trembling even though I wasn’t cold.
“Well, I don’t know what to say,” he said in monotone, turning to me with a blank look.
I’d seen that before and it made my blood turn cold. His face was rigid, with hard smooth lines and tense jawline. His limbs were loose, his voice controlled and emotionless.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Well, I was not. I felt like I was in the eye of a storm.
I once thought I grew up in an idyllic household. My family never argued, never knit-picked, never disagreed. We obediently went to bed at 9pm every night and got up at 5am every morning to attend early morning seminary. We earned straight A’s in all honors classes, went to 3 hours of church on Sundays plus midweek activities. We ate dinner together at 5 o’clock every night, the conversation about school subjects and logistics. It never occurred to us to talk back to our parents or test any rules. Everything had its place; order and discipline created perfect harmony in our home.
Except there was no emotion, no depth. We were fine.
Fine is not calm. Fine is a functional freeze state.
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