In tense and stressful situations, my preferred responses are freeze, flight, and fawn. Although, let’s be honest, what I really want to do is fight—like, really fight. Punches, kicks… maybe even throwing a chair.
Google describes these reactions as:
Flight: An instinct to run away from danger, often to create physical or emotional distance.
Freeze: A state of immobility or paralysis, where the body is unable to move or act against a threat.
Fawn: A response to try to please someone to avoid conflict. It can involve agreeing, saying what the other person wants to hear, or ignoring personal feelings.
There are two more: Fight and Friend.
Freeze:
My first reaction is freeze. I go quiet, like really quiet, on the outside. Inside, however, the noise is deafening. It feels like all future scenarios and past memories are racing on different tracks, hurtling past each other in a spaghetti-like mess. My heart races. I use all my energy to calm myself—breathing deeply but not so deeply that anyone will notice.
“Keep your shit together; people are watching you. Control your face. Control your body language. Breathe.”
Then panic sets in.
“Shit. Fuck. Shit. How long have I been out? Has anyone noticed? Are they waiting for me to talk?”
Flight:
If freezing doesn’t work, I move on to flight. I usually just shut down completely. If I can, I physically remove myself from the situation—it’s better than losing my shit. I know my arguments wouldn’t be eloquent anyway; they’d just be random words, completely off-point.
I need time to think. To organise my thoughts.
Fawn:
Once I’ve mentally played out all the scenarios, my final reaction is often fawning.
I know we’re supposed to enter discussions with an open heart—to understand and forgive. Not for the other person—no, no, no. For yourself. MY FUCKING SELF?
But my body doesn’t care about inner peace. It’s ready to fight. My teeth clench; my hands follow suit. I want blood. Then I simmer and settle.
Today was one of those days, and honestly, I admire the audacity of it all.
It was a busy weekend for the family. My husband—let’s call him Bandar (which means monkey)—was driving our two children to their respective Saturday clubs. For context, my daughter wanted to take the bus on her own. But there she was in the car as a hostage. Meanwhile, my son, lazy as ever, was along for the four-minute ride.
While this was happening, I called Bandar. The kids were both talking at the same time, and I heard him tell them to “stop talking rubbish.” I pointed out that wasn’t very nice. He responded by hanging up. Lovely.
Later, he rang to apologise—well, technically, I rang him and told him to apologise, but details, right?
Fast-forward to us driving to swap out a Christmas present he’d got for me. It was just Bandar, my daughter, and me. On the way, I casually mentioned that I might be going out on Wednesday or Thursday with some friends. (Using “friends” loosely here; there are only two of them.)
He said he’d check his calendar and get back to me. I told him there was nothing in the shared family calendar, so we were good.
Then he says,
“That may be the family calendar, but I’ll check my personal one too and let you know.”
I could feel my eye twitch.
I reminded him of the rule in our relationship: the person who announces their plans first gets the date.
He replied,
“I’ll need to check first… and then sign your permission slip.”
Now, I’m one of five sisters. I have zero tolerance for this kind of shit, and he knows it.
My fuse was officially lit.
I calmly (okay, maybe not so calmly) pointed out that he needed to adjust his tone. I wasn’t finding his “jokes” funny. He accused me of being passive-aggressive.
I clarified,
“I’m being very direct. I’ve told you this upsets me. If that’s not your intention, you should stop.”
Then he says,
“You can ask me, but you can’t tell me. I’m not one of your employees, and you’re not at work.”
Boom. Shut down.
Brain starts to whir. I stared out of the car window, heart pounding.
“Focus, focus. Don’t lose it. Your child is in the car.”
I pointed out a flooded park to my daughter and asked which shops she wanted to visit. Survived the car journey and the shopping trip.
We got home, and I retreated to the bath. Then curled up in bed, waiting for the inevitable call to dinner. Yes, Bandar normally cooks dinner by himself. I used to try and stay in the room but now I normally retreat—and so do the kids.
In bed, I replayed the conversation in a glitching mental loop—snippets of words and images over and over.
I was interrupted by shouting downstairs. My son ran up and burst into the room, telling me dinner was ready. He looked desperate for me to come down.
I asked what the shouting was about. He feigned ignorance, but his eyes betrayed him.
As I walked past the downstairs toilet, I heard my daughter crying inside.
In the kitchen, I asked Bandar what had happened. He launched into how he “does everything for everyone, and no one listens to him.” I informed him of his daughter’s whereabouts.
We ate dinner in frosty silence. Afterwards, the kids huddled around me like penguins seeking warmth. Bandar apologised, claiming he had merely “reacted” to what I’d said earlier.
The next day, I asked him why it was so important for the kids to listen to him. The dispute had been over the portions of food Bandar had served. Classic! This is a regular bone of contention in our house. The kids are 16 and 12, I think they can pour their own portion.
Finally, Bandar admitted he’d been angry at the kids because he was still angry at me. For his own behaviour that he’d already apologised for.
Classic deflection. Classic gaslighting. Classic Indian-boy behaviour.
Oh, and the Christmas present exchange? Couldn’t even swap it. He’d bought it in October, and the 60-day return policy had expired. I wanted the blue one. I had tried on the blue one and pointed at it as a potential Christmas present in August. He had purchased the pink one.
So now I’m stuck with a pink satin nightgown that I have to be thankful for! Another possibility, my husband suggested, was to re-gift the nightgown to his mother for Mother’s Day.
Beautiful!
Leave a Reply