Body

From "The Last Nude" by Avery Ellis, via "The Best Bisexual Women's Literature":

Ever since my sixteenth birthday, my body had felt like a coin in an unfamiliar currency: small, shiny, and heavy, obviously of value to somebody, but not to me… My body felt coincidental to me—I could just as easily be a tree, a stone, a gust of wind. For so long, I still felt like the ten-year-old me, skinny as a last wafer of soap, needling through Washington Square on her way to Baxter Street. But my months with Tamara had worn away the lonely old questions and replaced them with a greed of my own: my body was just a fact, this night, a kind of euphoria. I coincided with it, and with the dancing crowd. Throbbing with the horns and drums, we formed a waterfall passing over a light, each of us a drop, a spark, bright, gone. The music danced us, and I knew it wouldn’t last, this body I’d learnt to love.

Does this mental detachment with one's body familiar anyone?

The sick and the dying (part 2)

My response:

Interesting question. I am the world's worst sick person. When I was a teenager, I had a hard-to-diagnose health problem that made me very sick for some time. During that time I lost every single friend I had.

When I am sick, all I can think of is me. Usually I have the energy to keep up appearances, keep the mask on, etc. When I am sick, I simply do not. I typically don't even notice my ill behavior myself. For instance, when I was sick as a teenager, I thought I was handling things remarkably well. I was honestly surprised when all of my friends abandoned me. Since then, nearly every time I am sick, I get into an unprovoked argument with someone. The sickness makes me less patient, more easily annoyed, which I mistakenly attribute to that person being particularly troublesome. Does this ever happen to you? Where you feel nauseous and equate it to being nervous, but really you have the flu? Or you are short tempered and equate it to other people being difficult, when really you have a migraine? This is what happens to me when I am sick.

I think my emotions are so low level that I have gotten used to reading changes in my body as signs of how I may "feel" about something. If my stomach is upset, I figure that I am probably nervous so my adrenaline is up. If I have a fuzzy brain or a headache, I assume that I am tired or overwhelmed. Because I have gotten used to doing this, when I am sick because of a virus and not just sick and tired of something or somebody, I mistakenly believe at first that I am responding to things going on around me. But they are just emotional hallucinations -- my body is tricking my brain into thinking that certain negative things exist, but they don't -- it's all just my brain misinterpreting data.

So I could see how your father might blame you or others for the discomfort he feels. Even if that isn't true, he certainly has much less energy to put on a happy face. What you are getting from him right now is the uninsulated, un-papered over version of him. And you're right that he is probably annoyed that life (and you in some weird way) has betrayed him, failed him by allowing him to become the shadow of the man that he was. But that must be pretty normal for old people with a touch of narcissism, I would imagine.

The sick and the dying (part 1)

A reader asks:

I would be very interested in knowing how a sociopath deals with illness and old age. I am an RN and have cared for many a sociopath in my day (without knowing it). As I mentioned in previous emails my father is sociopathic. He is now in his 80's and a very miserable person to be around. He hates the fact that he is growing feeble, like we all will/do but his behavior is not the norm.

There seems to be no way to interact with him that does not turn out be a disaster. If I show my empathy and caring, he finds something to put a wedge between us. For example, the last time, I tried to talk to him about his physical health he threw in my face my teenage years and how I was not there for him during a difficult time. He let me know that he gave up on me at that time and that he had no use for me. If I ignore his ailments, he gets angry because no one understands or cares. It obvious that he feels quite less than everyone else and he makes little effort now to communicate with others with the exception of his wife who has devoted her life to him. I have not seen my father in almost 4 years.

I am wondering what is the best way to deal with an ailing sociopath. When sociopaths are faced with life-threatening illness and require hospitalization, do they look for empathy from others? Do the games stop even then or do they continue to manipulate people with a feeling of enjoyment? How does a sociopath think, feel and behave in times of such extreme vulnerability such as a terminal or life threatening illness along with the perils of aging?

Nerves

I tell people I don't get nervous. They ask why my voice sometimes shakes or I have other physical symptoms of nerves and anxiety. Ok, it's a bit of an exagerration to say I don't get nervous. Yes, my body gets nervous. Or it gets ready for whatever risky situation I am planning on subjecting it to. But my mind doesn't interpret that emotionally and think -- wow, I'm nervous.

This NY Times article about the body's reaction to risks explains it well:

To get an inkling of how this physiology works, consider the following scenario, in which a trader grapples with a rumor that the Fed may raise rates later that afternoon:

As 2:15 — the time of the announcement — approaches, trading on the screens dwindles. The floor goes quiet. The trader feels intellectually prepared. But the challenge he faces requires more than cognitive skill. He needs fast reactions, and energy for the hours ahead.

Consequently, his metabolism speeds up, ready to break down energy stores in liver, muscle and fat cells. Breathing accelerates, drawing in more oxygen, and his heart rate speeds up. Cells of the immune system take up position at vulnerable points of the body, ready to deal with injury and infection. And his nervous system, extending from the brain down into the abdomen, redistributes blood — constricting flow to the gut, giving him butterflies, and to the reproductive organs, since this is no time for sex — shunting it to major muscle groups in the arms and thighs as well as to the lungs, heart and brain.

The announcement will bring volatility, and a chance to make money. The trader feels a surge of energy as steroid hormones are synthesized by their respective glands and injected into his bloodstream. Steroids are powerful, dangerous chemicals — they change almost every detail of body and brain: his growth rate, lean-muscle mass, mood, even the memories he recalls — and for that reason their use is tightly regulated by the International Olympic Committee and the hypothalamus, the brain’s drug enforcement agency.

These past hours, the trader’s testosterone levels have been climbing. This steroid hormone, produced by men (and, in lesser quantities, by women) primes the trader for the challenge ahead, just as it does athletes preparing to compete and male animals to fight. Rising levels increase confidence and, crucially, appetite for risk. For the trader this is a moment of transformation, what the French since the Middle Ages have called “the hour between dog and wolf.”

The stress hormones adrenaline and cortisol surge out of the adrenal glands, and the cortisol travels to the brain, where it stimulates the release of dopamine, a chemical operating along neural circuits known as the pleasure pathways. At high levels, cortisol provides a nasty, stressful experience. But in small amounts, in combination with dopamine — one of the most addictive drugs known to the human brain — it delivers a narcotic hit, a rush that convinces traders that there is no other job in the world.

Finally, at 2:14, the trader leans into his screen, pupils dilated, breathing rhythmic, muscles coiled, body and brain fused for impending action. An expectant hush descends on global markets.

This scenario illustrates just how sensitive the body is to information. We do not regard prices on a screen as a computer would, dispassionately; we react physically. Our body and brain rev up and down together, and this natural fusion makes us better risk-takers.

So yes, my body does respond to risk. And it can't just keep taking a beating. So even though my mind can handle things, sometimes my body can't, and vice versa.