Photo Credit: Manfred Zimmer/Pixabay
Jane approached life in a pedantic fashion.
This tendency emerged foremost in her manner of speech. Her precisely enunciated words issued forth in a slow, measured tempo with little tonal inflection or changes in volume. When first listening to her vocalizations, they seemed almost robotic, as if driven by AI rather than a homo sapiens.
The remainder of her mannerisms followed suit. Scrupulously maintaining stone-like eye contact, she exhibited few and muted facial expressions, rarely gestured, and seemed to sit and stand at near attention. Impeccably groomed and dressed, in the absence of movement, mistaking her for a mannequin was not out of the question.
“I’m very cerebral,” she told me. “I’ve been called rigid, and I know I look the part.”
“We know you look the part. The question is whether you truly feel the part,” I replied.
A financial professional in a growing organization, she conducted her interactions with others much as she did with her spreadsheets, as matter-of-fact transactions. For the most part, we humans interact in two ways: We are either relating or transacting. The former feeds our hearts and souls, while the latter feeds our pockets and to-do lists. Well, Jane was pretty much transactional across the board. “I let down some with my family, of course, but probably not that much compared to the average wife and mother,” she mused.
“I’ve never met an average anybody, but I get your point,” I responded.
Our conversation revealed Jane had once been a more animated and engaged soul. The mental transformation into her version of Spock was gradual but fully deployed by the time she exited graduate school. Highly competent in her craft, she rose quickly through the ranks. While not much liked by her colleagues, she earned their respect.
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“Our countenance and mannerisms speak for us sometimes,” I suggested. “You’re smart. What do you think yours are saying?”
“Be careful,” she replied abruptly, surprising herself.
By not displaying any emotion, Jane kept her mental doors and windows shuttered. With shields up at all times, she made it clear to most everyone they should stay away, and they largely did. Her husband was an exception, but she admitted some discomfort when he tried to get inside her head and heart.
“Where did you learn to be careful?” I continued.
In Jane’s case, it was gradual. Reared by aloof parents, after getting her heart broken by several suitors through high school and college, she began battening down the mental hatches. Sensitized to the pain humans inflict on each other, she decided the world was an emotionally dangerous place. She chose a husband who was long on trustworthiness and short on emotional intimacy.
Particularly for highly sensitive people, such as Jane, rejection cuts deep. In fact, studies show it is among the most agonizing of human experiences. Her challenge was to face the fear of rejection by striking a balance between emotional vulnerability and psychological safety. Not easy.
First, one determines those friends or family who are emotionally safe, rather than painting all people with the same “be careful” brush. Then, gradually, one cracks open a few of those barred mental windows, exhibiting enough emotional vulnerability to test the waters. If all goes well, door openings become feasible.
Sadly, of course, not having anyone “to tell it to,” as actress Ruth Gordon put it, makes this approach all but moot. Regardless, emotionally unsafe folks shouldn’t be granted access. With them, Jane’s sort of mental armor is advantageous rather than problematic. The trick is choosing wisely, realizing there’s no guarantee of absolute emotional safety in this world.
Never lowering one’s mental shields carries its own risks, including loneliness, feeling fake, the stress of hypervigilance, the absence of intimacy and not being known (and, therefore, validated) for one’s true self.
Having emotional shields is necessary, but not sufficient.
We all need someone to help us lower them.
