Learning to deal with emotional tsunamis
I started journaling two years ago. It started when I got laid off, and I unraveled my identity from work. It was also the time my wife and I tried to keep our two toddlers and terminally ill father-in-law alive under one roof. My physical needs were met, so I'd say I'm doing fine, but emotionally I needed help. So I got a therapist and started journaling, always writing like I was running out of time. After the initial six months, I fell off somewhere. Maybe I didn’t need it anymore. I’d journal occasionally since, when I was most in trouble. In the past two weeks, I've had five journaling sessions. Am I in trouble? I don’t think I am. I'm just trying to figure out who I am. It’s not scary; if anything, it’s kind of exciting. The beauty of it is that everything I write has a small clue about myself. Why would I post it all anonymously? I want to be heard, but I’m too afraid of what I will write or how I’m going to be judged. It’s like yelling into a pillow.
I'm older now, like a seasoned investigator. My perspective has evolved, and I'm reliving my past on the hunt for clues. What thoughts and feelings did I have, and how did I react to them? I start to notice patterns, like learning from history. The more I learn about myself, the better I get at dealing with my emotions. My emotions flood my brain, and I’m gasping for air to breathe, trying to keep my fight response at bay. It feels like an emotional tsunami.
My first goal is to build a tsunami warning system. Develop internal physical or mental cues that warn me before I'm going to say something hurtful. My first iteration, the warning is a couple of weeks too late. I was an asshole, and my warning came from the outside. I'm disappointed by the failure and grateful for the signal. I still have the chance to repair the damage, and I do. I start getting better at repairing the damage. It's better to not cause it in the first place so I focus there. I get better, and now my warning goes off a couple of days late. I keep working on it, and now the signal is only 30 minutes late. Enough time to repair the damage before I go to sleep. Enough time to have a good weekend. I learn I can’t repair them all and learn to accept it. Sometimes I repair by giving space and time, the hardest for me. Then the warning comes from my five senses: my heart rate is up, the room sounds louder, and I feel the tension. The tsunami is here, and I’m in the middle of it.
I’m aware; it's the moment I've been working for, and I haven’t said anything hurtful. I don’t know what to do, but breathe. So I inhale through my nose, long and deep. It's not enough; I say something hurtful anyway. I'm disappointed by the failure, grateful for the signal, and I still have time to turn the conversation around. I've got to do better, so I start practicing my breathing. After working out at home, I set a five-minute timer, lay down, and try to get my heart rate down and stabilize my breathing. The goal is to continuously exhale for 10 seconds. The first time I did it, I had a hard time engaging my brain to count, and it took me all five minutes. Over the past six months, I got down to three minutes. My trick is to breathe deep and let go.
Middle of tsunami again. Three deep breaths buy my cerebral cortex some time. Five seconds before my amygdala breaks in, and it's just enough time to say PAUSE. My safe word. Then I breathe a couple more times. I put on my shoes and begin running. I need to move, create some space, and have it hurt a little. I put on my noise-canceling headphones and escape into my music. I’m safe and start to reflect. What happened? My mind yells, angry with the world. My fight response was triggered; I'm hurt, and I don’t know why. I run the thought experiment: what If I'm only 50% right, and I know that's being generous, what's the other point of view? The prompt forces me to go from externalizing to internalizing. I start to see the anxiety on both sides before it turns into pain. The warning system worked. I get back and start with a tight hug.
I love her. She’s so patient with me. At the pace I’m going, it’s going to take a lot more time. Some waves I need to stop manufacturing. The feedback loop from hell. Others, I need to let wash over me and accept them. It’s like I’m slowly evolving up Maslow’s hierarchy, redefining my well-being beyond just physical safety.