You are reading The Mandate, a newsletter on topics that men don’t like to talk about / Written by LA-Based Writer, Cultural Strategist, and Olympic Medalist Jason Rogers
Sometimes it just comes over me. My wife and I will be having a tense conversation, and I feel heat prickling in my arms just below the skin. Then, my chest clamps down on itself. Usually, I want to say something mean or unfair to the situation. Years of self-editing have taught me how to steer away from those kinds of verbal catastrophes. But my actual response is no less destructive. I’ll grow quiet or give clipped answers to questions, my words drained of any emotion. But let me take a step back for just one sec.
For the last year or so, I’ve been feeling frustrated professionally. Not that writing has ever been easy, but until recently, I felt a sense of forward motion. One published piece yielded another. My work quickly went from online to print. Then it felt like it all dried up. I kept pitching new stories and developing larger projects, but they didn’t pan out. Finally, I managed to snag two exciting things back to back last fall. However, basic logistics sunk one of those things. The other thing went ahead but has been delayed by factors outside my control.
I am enormously privileged to work in this medium. And, of course, no one is ever entitled to opportunities. But I must admit that, lately, I have felt like a child who wants to throw his toys out of the pram. Some of that reactivity is predictable. No one wants to feel invisible. I’m also turning 40 in a month, a scary milestone for most. No matter how often I remind myself to be patient, I can’t escape the sensation of slipping backward down a steep hill. Much of this is due to the unreasonable expectations I (still) set for myself and my constant need for praise. Plus, any person who writes knows that it is often excruciating. The more you succeed, the more you fail.
So, now we return to the start. Lately, I’ve been turning that frustration on my wife. Over the last few months, we’ve discussed the adjustments I need to make to ensure my creative path is emotionally and financially sustainable. But I tend to put her in a corner when I ask for her opinion and then become upset when her response does not match what I want to hear. These are the moments when that hot, prickly feeling surfaces. However, I don’t lash out in the traditional sense. Instead of letting her see the ugliness — the insecurity, the fear — I slam the door in her face. To put it succinctly, I withdraw.
Generally, when we think of bad male behavior in relationships, we imagine the guy who breaks things, shouts, or stomps out of the room. But the man who withdraws is just as dangerous. The difference is akin to an air missile versus a torpedo. Both are devastating, but the latter’s style of attack is covert. Sometimes, even I’m unaware of when I’m freezing my wife out. I’ll smile and apologize, and yet the conversation remains off-kilter. Internally I’m feeling righteous, but my inability to relate authentically is what’s making things weird.
One therapy model, in particular, has helped me better understand this response's mechanics in a broader sense. I’ve been reading No Bad Parts by Richard C. Schwartz, the creator of Internal Family Systems. As the title suggests, the book's thesis is that the most troubling parts of ourselves aren’t inherently “bad” because they are simply trying to protect us from harm. For example, if you were repeatedly scolded or punished as a child for tantrums, you might unconsciously feel like expressing anger isn’t “safe.” Anger might then manifest as sadness and tears.
I’m still getting to the bottom of why I choose to shut down when I feel anger or shame. I know it concerns my history of anxiety in vulnerable moments. But identifying a precise source — i.e., the early scenarios that made me feel unsafe expressing those feelings — has been difficult. What I do know is that it’s one of the most unhelpful ways I deal with uncomfortable emotions. It creates a cycle in which I refuse help and then feel alone when no help arrives.
Much of this has to do with the parts of ourselves that we reject. I’m hardly qualified to gesture at universal solutions, but here’s how I’ve been working through this issue myself. My natural instinct is to identify the angry part or ashamed part and to allow my inner critic to launch in gear. However, that only exacerbates the problem. So, I’ve been trying to create more space for the pissed-off kid inside me at therapy and at home. Instead of judging him, I try to feel compassion for him. When I can hug that exiled part of myself instead of banishing him, I’m more likely to let other people in.
You are letting the cat out of the bag. I’m here for you.
Jason, This article hit more close to home for me than almost anything I’ve ever read. My mother was a saintly woman - her goodness almost otherworldly. She raised me to take my anger and burry it deep down, until I was 16, when she took her own life. My father then finished the job - raising me to do the exact opposite. I live at both ends of the spectrum - a bit bipolar, but aware of the internal mechanisms that are causing it. The shutdowns happen anytime someone touches that deep part of me that doesn’t want to show vulnerability.
I’m glad I stumbled upon your article in this random corner of the internet. I’ll check out the book by Richard Schwartz. Thanks for taking the time to write this.