Hearing the whispers before they become screams
The call is coming from inside the house
I’m injured again. This time, it’s my right shoulder; I’ve set off an old rotator cuff injury. I’m no stranger to injury, partly because of my preferred ways to exercise (running and F45, both notorious for injuries) but partly because of who I am as a person. That is: a bit ignorant.
When I started dabbling in fiction a few years ago, I realised I had to pay attention to the world around me. “Show, not tell,” the oft-repeated fiction writer's maxim, is about description and sensory engagement. It requires a certain level of awareness of your surroundings which, it turns out, I didn’t really have.
Well, that’s not entirely true.My internal Google, like yours, lets some data in and filters the rest out. The more accurate description is that I am hypervigilant to some information and utterly ignorant to others.
For example, I’m pretty good at writing emotional shifts, including the telltale signs of impending conflict - no surprises there. I grew up in an emotional slot machine that featured explosive, traumatic conflict, but yet was often filled with care, love, and laughter. I have a spidey sense for the signs of incoming tension or the changing winds of connection.
But the hallmarks of traditional prose, filled with glistening dewdrops and russet sunsets, mostly elude me. I am ignorant in this way. I bump into people at the supermarket because I don’t know they’re behind me. I don’t notice big changes in my environment, such as a huge tree being removed by a beach I visit daily. My external awareness is low by default, unless I register a threat. The same blind spot applies to some of my own feelings and physical discomfort. I ignore the calls coming from inside the house, until they’re too loud.
This is great for training, because I can push through, but less good for distinguishing between DOMS and disaster. My physio recently suggested I have a high pain threshold, but I’m not sure. I think I feel as much pain as anyone else once I register it. But the buffering time between injury and infirmity creates a lag that can result in me pushing further than I should and worsening my plight.
Pain is supposed to be felt at the time, not later. That’s because it’s an early warning signal - useful information about a threat or something that needs to change.
But what if you’re not able to do anything with that information? What if you’re too small or powerless to save yourself, stuck in a situation with no way out, or expressing those feelings might put you at risk?
In those situations, the most sensible option is not to feel or acknowledge the pain. The pain is a request to change your situation, and if you can’t do that, you best shut it off. This is a clever survival mechanism, and I am delighted to have had it. Under conditions of chronic stress and abandonment, I deployed this mechanism to great effect.
When I was 21, with a squalling newborn, a four-year-old, and a thesis to write, there was nobody else to hang out the washing, cook the dinner, or tend to my busted nipples. Feeling the depth of my discomfort would have been an unhelpful barrier to keeping everyone fed and well. So I didn’t. I white-knuckled my way through. I mastered the Art of Getting On With It. It’s a great strategy, but it comes at a cost. Doing things just to get through them requires a certain distance from your feelings. Some information sources get switched off or jumbled. In one memorable example from that time, I didn’t know I had toothache until the infection had spread through my face, neck and body, and I wound up in hospital on a drip.
Years later, my dial still gets stuck on ‘Survive’ sometimes. It’s why, training for a run last year, I didn’t realise I’d busted both of my Achilles, until I could hardly walk. My physio was baffled: ‘Hasn’t this been hurting for months?” When I concentrated, I realised it had, indeed, been uncomfortable for months, but I hadn’t registered it. By the time I realise I’m hurting, I’m really hurting.
This leaves me thinking a couple of things.
When temporary fixes become permanent fixtures
We develop all kinds of behaviours, strategies, and mechanisms to get through tough times - and tough times are inescapable for all of us. Illness, divorce, redundancy, grief and disappointment do not discriminate. We’re all touched by trouble and we do our best with what we have. Often, those coping mechanisms are necessary band-aids to tide us over. They come in many forms. Two glasses of wine every night. Skipping the gym when sleep deprivation takes over. Tracking every cent when money gets tight. Usually, we get back on track when the crisis passes.
But what if the crisis doesn’t pass, or we get stuck? In those cases, our experiences can permanently change us, not for the better. Without realising it, the hustle that got us out of a tight spot becomes chronic overwork. The resilience to disappointment becomes global bitterness and refusal to trust. The self-driven capability becomes a too-tight grip on control. The temporary nesting becomes full-blown social withdrawal. Our coping mechanisms affect our character.
The person you are when you are going through it might not be the person you want running your everyday life. Years ago, when I was working and travelling at breakneck speed, I worked with Alessandra Edwards. She helped me develop a little ritual I used to employ when I landed back in Wellington Airport, to put the Superstar Performer back in her box and allow me to reset my nervous system. I had a cosy hoodie in my car, which I would slip into as soon as I put my suitcase in the boot. The signal to my body was clear: we’re changing tack now. Thanks, Superstar, but I don’t need you again until next week.
I’m not sure the solution for avoiding permanent character changes is as simple as a cosy hoodie, but awareness of who we’re being and what mode we are in is probably a good start.
Know your early warning signals
Pain is an early warning signal of threat or danger. A slight twinge is an early warning signal to reduce your weight or improve your form. A burn is an early warning signal to get your hand out of the fire. Anger and resentment are early warning signals you are overextended or underappreciated. Dread at the thought of going to work or seeing certain people is an early warning signal that you are in a situation that doesn’t align with your values. Fatigue is an early warning signal your body, mind, and/or soul need a change of pace.
With babies, we take action before they get over-tired. We see the early signs - eye rubbing, irritability, restless limbs - and get them down for a nap before they turn into raging, uncontrollable banshees. We realise that paying attention to early cues will save us grief later. But that can be hard for us. Your early warning signals are unique to you, shaped by your history and experiences. But maybe, like mine, your signals have been dulled by decades of coping or daily demands. Maybe the system malfunctions, like an inconsistent smoke alarm, only sounding once the fire is blazing hot.
If you override the early warning signals, instead pushing yourself harder, chastising yourself for laziness, or dismissing your feelings or symptoms as irrational, you risk the early whispers turning into noisy screams. Then, there’s a bigger mess to clean up. A stitch in time saves nine, as long as you’re paying attention.
Attention questions
I’m interested in knowing how your attention operates - and what your blind spots are.
What do you pay close attention to?
What signs do you miss? Yours? Others? Environmental?
How could you pay better attention to the world around you?
What strategies do you recommend?
Til next week,
AM
PS - I am publishing my March reading journal this week. Stay tuned!
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