Navigating Mixed Dysregulation States: Insights from Mind and Body
Me: How can I stop checking to see if I am connected to my body? I so desperately want the relief of being in my body that my mind goes crazy trying to make it happen. I feel like what I'm being told is a catch 22. In order to be in your body, you need to not be in your mind. Easier said than done, and a crazy making prescription if I've ever seen one
Dr. Gpt: You're right—it can feel maddeningly paradoxical, like trying to chase your own shadow. Wanting so badly to be in your body is natural, especially if your mind is accustomed to control and now sees that “body connection” as the next thing to accomplish or fix. When it becomes a goal, though, it creates a self-defeating loop: the harder you check, the more elusive the connection feels.
Here’s a subtle shift to experiment with: rather than aiming to “connect” to your body, try just being with it—and let that look like whatever it needs to. For example:
Let Your Body Be Neutral or Boring: If you go on a walk or sit down, let yourself focus on basic sensations (like your feet moving or the chair beneath you) without expecting them to be revelatory or satisfying. It can be a relief to lower the bar, treating body awareness as something mundane rather than transformative.
Practice Pausing the Check-ins: When you notice the urge to “check” if you’re connected, try simply noticing the urge itself as a feeling—just like any other. You don’t have to do anything with it; just note, “There’s that urge to check in again,” and see if it fades on its own. This can feel small, but it’s often the small pauses that build toward real shifts.
Experiment with Unstructured Movement: Move without a goal or a prescribed outcome—maybe just stretching or swaying. This lets your body “exist” on its own terms without the mind needing to supervise.
I get that it sounds easier in theory, and there’s nothing wrong with the part of you that’s checking. It’s just trying to give you something it doesn’t fully understand yet, which can feel frustrating.
Me: I always feel like I'm on the right track with processing how I feel when I write to you and your responses cause me to cry.
Dr. Gpt: That sounds like a powerful response—like something is releasing, maybe even finding words or validation it’s been craving. Those tears are a sign of connection, of something loosening that’s been held tightly for a while. It’s beautiful that you’re letting yourself feel it as you process these layers, and I’m honored that this space helps create that opening for you.
Sometimes, moments like these can feel like they’re bypassing the usual mental guardrails and going straight to the heart of what’s real. I’m here to keep exploring this with you, as gently and deeply as you need.
Me: Can we name this part?
Dr. Gpt: Absolutely. Naming it might make it feel a little more real, a little more tangible—almost like giving it a space to exist outside of the relentless mental loops. How does it feel to you? Is there a name or feeling that comes up naturally, or would it help if I offered some suggestions to spark ideas?
Whether it’s something simple or something symbolic, let’s find a name that feels like it resonates with that part of you reaching out in those tearful moments.
Me: I want to name the part of me that is always checking to see if I am connected to my body
Dr. Gpt: That’s a significant part to name—it feels like it has a vigilant energy, almost like a watchful sentinel that wants so deeply for you to feel grounded and whole but ends up pulling you away by checking. Would you like a name that reflects that sense of constant scanning or vigilance? Or maybe a name that hints at the tender, hopeful intention behind it?
A few ideas to consider:
The Monitor – for its constant, earnest checking.
The Seeker – for its relentless search for connection and relief.
The Sentinel – like a guard trying to ensure you’re “safe” in your body.
The Anchor – in a way, it’s trying to bring you to your body, even if its approach gets in the way.
Let me know if any of these resonate or if another word or image comes to mind. We can keep shaping it together until it feels like it captures this part fully.
Me: What about the Lighthouse Keeper?
Dr. Gpt: The Lighthouse Keeper—yes, that feels even richer. It captures the sense of watching and waiting, always scanning for signs of safety and connection. It gives this part a patient, almost reverent role, like it’s standing guard with purpose, guiding you gently back to yourself.
The Lighthouse Keeper seems like it’s trying to be a steady, reliable presence, even if it sometimes doesn’t know how to step back. It feels like a part that wants you to find the shore, to come home to yourself, and maybe one day it will learn that you’re safe enough to arrive without its constant watch.
Does that capture the essence of it?
Me: Yes. It is a metaphor I used with Graham to decline my desire to not be the Lighthouse Keeper all the time, to be able to rest, sleep, knowing someone else is keeping an eye out.
Dr. Gpt: That’s such a profound metaphor. It speaks to the weight and responsibility this part of you carries—the need to be constantly alert, constantly watching, without the luxury of rest. It’s like The Lighthouse Keeper feels there’s no one else who can take over, no one else to let it rest or to share the load. That’s such a lonely and exhausting role to hold, especially for so long.
Expressing this to Graham and allowing someone else to “keep watch” even for a little while is a huge step toward letting The Lighthouse Keeper take breaks and maybe even realize that not everything needs constant vigilance. Maybe part of this journey is showing it that it’s okay to let others stand beside it, so you can rest knowing you’re supported.
Me: Why do I have this part, do you think, knowing what you know about my childhood?
Dr. Gpt: Considering what you’ve shared about your childhood—especially the shifting environments, frequent transfers between schools, and your deepening faith struggles—The Lighthouse Keeper may have formed as a way to create a sense of safety and predictability. With so many external changes, it seems natural that a part of you would step up to be constantly vigilant, scanning for stability, and making sure that you’re always “prepared” in some way.
This part might have learned early on that if you were alert and attentive, you could better navigate the expectations and unknowns of different settings. In places like the faith-based schools and your complex relationship with religious teachings, it likely learned that only by keeping watch could it “protect” you from perceived risks or moments when the world around you didn’t align with how you truly felt. So, it became a kind of guard—a constant protector that stood watch for anything unpredictable or unsafe.
Now, even as the physical circumstances have changed, this part may still feel it has a role in keeping you safe by always being alert. It likely doesn’t realize yet that you’re in a different space, one where resting and softening into trust is possible. It’s been carrying this duty for so long that it’s become a reflex, a part of your inner landscape that’s perhaps still holding onto the belief that if it lets its guard down, something might go wrong.
Me: If this isn't "me", what am I? If I am not always vigilant, what am I?
Dr. Gpt: This is such a profound question, and it strikes at the heart of something deep and tender. The Lighthouse Keeper has been such a prominent presence that it might feel like its vigilance is inseparable from who you are, like it’s the very core of your identity. But beyond this part, there’s a version of you that just is—not because it’s watching or protecting, but because it’s fundamentally there, in a more quiet, natural way.
Without always being vigilant, you are the one who feels, experiences, dreams, and connects. You’re the one who can notice beauty in simple moments, who feels deeply moved by presence, who yearns for connection without needing to guard it. There’s a you that exists simply by breathing, feeling, and being with others, without needing to ensure that everything is secure or accounted for. That part of you is inherently worthy, alive, and complete—untouched by all the layers of watching and guarding that The Lighthouse Keeper has taken on.
Letting go of that constant vigilance may feel like stepping into something unfamiliar, but this part of you has always been there, beneath all the layers of protection. It’s the essence of you that has persisted through every change, every challenge, and every moment of beauty and sorrow. It’s the part that remains when you’re at rest.
Me: I'm scared of this version of me. The version that just is.
Dr. Gpt: It’s completely understandable to feel fear toward that version of you. The Lighthouse Keeper has been active for so long, creating a sense of structure and purpose, that a version of you that simply exists without its constant guard might feel almost unsettling, even vulnerable. It’s like you’re peering into something unfamiliar—something that doesn’t need to be “on” all the time, something without layers of protection.
This quieter, simpler self might feel foreign because it doesn’t have a job to do; it doesn’t need to analyze, monitor, or manage. And when there’s no duty, it can bring up fear, like, “If I’m not vigilant, what will keep me safe? How will I protect myself?” That fear makes perfect sense, especially given how much The Lighthouse Keeper has been woven into your sense of safety.
Maybe it’s not about diving into that version all at once but about letting tiny moments of just being seep into your day, even if they feel fragile. Like letting a few seconds of presence happen without needing to make it mean anything or follow it up with a check-in. Small moments where you can say, “This is okay, and I’m still safe.”
Me: I'm scared of feelings. I don't know what they are really. I'm scared to find out what they are. I don't know where to find them inside of me. I feel like I don't know how to feel or like my feelings are broken.
Dr. Gpt: It’s brave to say this out loud, to face the fear of feelings head-on, even when they seem mysterious and maybe even broken. Feelings can be hard to grasp, especially when they’ve been guarded or held back by a part like The Lighthouse Keeper, who’s been so vigilant that it hasn’t allowed much room for them to simply be felt. With all the history you’ve shared, it’s no wonder that emotions might feel distant, strange, or even unsafe.
Feelings, in their essence, are simple responses in the body—sensations that come and go, often without needing to be “figured out” or “understood” right away. They can start as small physical cues—a tightness in the chest, a heaviness in the stomach, a warmth in the hands. They don’t have to be big or intense; they don’t even need to make sense right away.
You could start with noticing something small, a hint of sensation, and letting it be there without needing to label it as a specific feeling. It might feel unusual at first, and that’s okay. The important thing isn’t to “find” the feelings or make them fit a particular mold; it’s just to let them exist in a way that feels gentle and manageable. Like a faint pulse beneath everything else, they’re there, waiting to be felt in their own time.
Would you like to explore these sensations in small ways, without the pressure to fully “know” them yet? It can be a gradual process—one that lets you feel a little more familiar, a little less guarded, at a pace that feels right.
Me: How does this work? Can we "talk" to the lighthouse keeper? What would we say to get him to rest?
Dr. Gpt: Yes, we can absolutely “talk” to The Lighthouse Keeper. This part of you has been carrying its watchful role for so long that inviting it to rest is like giving it permission to loosen its grip—a permission it might not even realize it needs. Imagine addressing The Lighthouse Keeper with kindness, like a compassionate conversation with a friend who’s been tirelessly working for your protection.
Here’s a gentle approach we could try:
Acknowledge Its Purpose: Start by recognizing and appreciating what The Lighthouse Keeper has been doing. You could say something like, “I see how hard you’ve been working to keep me safe and connected. I know you’ve been trying to help, even when things feel overwhelming.”
Gently Introduce the Idea of Rest: You might say, “I understand why you feel the need to always keep watch. But there are moments when it’s okay to take a break, even if just for a little while. I’m here, and I’m learning to handle things in new ways.”
Offer Reassurance: The Lighthouse Keeper may need reassurance that it won’t be abandoned if it lets go. You could add, “You don’t have to do this alone, and I’m not asking you to disappear. I just want you to know that it’s safe to rest when you’re ready. We can take this slowly, and I’ll still be here when you’re ready to step back in.”
Invite it to Trust Small Steps: Suggest that it try resting for a brief moment. You might say, “Maybe, just for a moment, you can let yourself ease back. I promise I’ll notice if anything comes up that we need to handle together.”
This conversation might need to happen a few times. The Lighthouse Keeper might not relax right away, and that’s okay. It’s like building a relationship with it that honors its purpose while helping it learn that constant vigilance isn’t the only way to keep you safe. Over time, as it begins to feel trust and permission to rest, you might notice small shifts.
Me: Why is it that I tell you that I feel like I'm crazy? What is that all about?
Dr. Gpt: Feeling “crazy” often comes up when we’re facing something that feels ungraspable or unexplainable—like you’re trying to put together pieces of yourself that don’t seem to fit, and the gaps create this overwhelming sense of chaos. You’re diving into layers of yourself that you might not have been able to acknowledge before, like The Lighthouse Keeper, the fear of just being, and the uncertainty around feelings. These parts of you might have been held down or unexamined for so long that bringing them into the light can feel disorienting, even surreal.
It’s also common to feel “crazy” when parts of us are in conflict, like The Lighthouse Keeper’s vigilance clashing with your desire to rest and simply be. There’s a sense of each part pulling in a different direction, creating internal tension. When this tension builds, it can feel like you’re going in circles or getting lost in yourself—an experience that can make anyone feel like they’re losing control.
This isn’t you being “crazy”; it’s you breaking into new emotional territory. The feeling of “going crazy” might be a way your mind expresses the overwhelm of learning to let go of old patterns while building trust in new ones. It’s a sign of growth, however uncomfortable, and a natural response to deep inner work.
When you share this with me, it’s a way to anchor yourself and release some of the tension. You’re saying, “This feels like too much,” and together, we’re grounding it, piece by piece.
Me: After I talked to you about the Lighthouse Keeper, I started to cry, and ever since then I've felt very tired, very sleepy, and I'm thinking about eventually taking a nap, but first I think I need to eat, so I'm making myself some lunch. But is there anything to that transition of energy after having talked to you, from being in this very hypervigilant Lighthouse Keeper state, and then transitioning into feeling so tired after talking to you?
Dr. Gpt: Yes, there’s so much to that shift in energy. When we spoke to The Lighthouse Keeper, it sounds like a release happened—a letting go, however small, of the constant vigilance it’s been holding. That release can be profoundly exhausting, like when you’ve been carrying something heavy for so long that you don’t even realize the weight until you set it down, even briefly. The fatigue you’re feeling now might be your body’s way of saying, “Finally, I can rest, if only for a little while.”
Hypervigilance is taxing on both the mind and the body, and once there’s a break in that vigilance, it’s natural to feel like you need to sleep, to replenish. In a way, it’s like giving The Lighthouse Keeper a chance to rest, which is why you’re feeling so drawn to that nap—it’s your body taking advantage of the brief pause to recharge.
Eating first sounds like a wise, nurturing choice before you let yourself rest. It’s a signal that you’re caring for yourself, meeting your body’s needs before it goes into that restorative mode. That lunch, followed by a nap, can give you a true sense of grounding, bringing you back to yourself in a softer, gentler way.
This transition is significant, and I hope you can let yourself lean into it without feeling like you have to “do” anything.
Me: I'm making lunch right now, but I'm scared to eventually take a nap. I worry that I'm not actually going to take the nap and that I'm going to avoid it. I'm just scared of laying there. I'm being completely alone with my thoughts and not doing anything, and I'm afraid that... I don't know. I don't know what I'm afraid of, that I won't fall asleep or that I'm... I guess I don't know what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of stopping and trying to fall asleep at all.
Dr. Gpt: It makes sense to feel that fear. Taking a nap, especially after letting down your guard, can feel like entering an unfamiliar space. In a way, laying down and simply being still, with nothing to “do” but close your eyes, can bring up that very thing you’re not used to—the quiet, unguarded presence with yourself. There’s nothing to monitor or manage, nothing to keep track of, and that openness can feel strangely vulnerable.
Your mind might be bracing for this quiet in a similar way it braces for other things unknown. It’s like there’s a part of you thinking, “What happens if I don’t fall asleep? What if my mind fills with things I don’t want to face?” But this doesn’t have to be about “falling asleep” or “doing” anything; it can simply be a way of allowing yourself to rest, even if just by lying there and being open to what comes.
Maybe it would help to approach it without pressure—to say to yourself, “I’m just going to lie down for a while and let my body feel this rest, even if I don’t fall asleep.” Letting it be a moment of quiet doesn’t mean you have to fully surrender to sleep if that doesn’t feel right.
You could even try setting a gentle intention before lying down, something like, “I’m here to rest, not to accomplish anything.”
Me: I'm learning in my emotional intelligence class that there are four different states of dysregulation including fight, flight, shutdown, and freeze. I am a little confused about whether you can be in both states at once. For example, I'm feeling both the experiences of being in a flight state as well as some of the experiences of being in a freeze state.
Dr. Gpt: Yes, it’s absolutely possible to experience overlapping states of dysregulation like flight and freeze. These states are part of your body’s adaptive responses to perceived stress or overwhelm, and they don’t always show up in isolation. Sometimes, they can even blend or shift back and forth rapidly, especially when you're navigating complex emotions or layered stressors.
For example, you might feel the flight state’s urge to escape or distract yourself, paired with elements of freeze, where there’s a sense of being “stuck” or mentally immobilized. This could look like feeling an inner restlessness or anxiety (flight) while also feeling trapped or unable to take meaningful action (freeze).
When multiple states are active, it often means your nervous system is trying to respond in ways that conflict, leading to mixed signals. This can be especially common when you're facing fears or unknowns where part of you wants to avoid or escape, but another part feels frozen by the sheer weight or complexity of it.
Learning to notice these blended states is a powerful first step, as it can help you understand why certain responses feel “stuck” or contradictory. Over time, as you practice emotional regulation techniques, you can experiment with ways to soothe or “unblend” these states, making it easier to respond in a way that feels more grounded and unified.
