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I am a psychologist. A mother. A podcaster. A writer. An online teacher. A wife.
I inform, I educate, I ask questions, I meet children from around the world and make sure to ask how they are doing – even if the job I am technically getting paid for is to explain the connection between the Salem Witch Trials and peer pressure, or to detail, for the more academically inclined, why if a synthetic version of the hormone cortisol was released into the world, the wealthiest businesses would be those that manufacture pregnancy tests.
I tell my children what they should be doing, and my husband what our family has done that day. I attempt to tell him what I need from him, emotionally, so that there is still gas in my engine, steam in my locomotive, and energy in heart to keep moving forward through this chaos.
I hashtag and tweet and post on the relevant platforms – except for TikTok. No one needs to see my lack of rhythm.
I spend more than 60 hours a week – on average – talking at people. At people. Not to people.
I just feel like we don’t talk anymore. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the one who has forgotten the need to talk *to* my people, rather than *at* my strangers.
I speak with my parents, but the quality of the conversations is defined by the combination of technology, alcohol, and poor thumb placement. Many audio calls begin with the confusion of “Lindsay, why can’t we see you?”
Or on Facetime, “Lindsay, why can’t we hear you?”
“Dad, you need to move your thumb off of the speaker.”
My husband calls to talk when he is in his car, on his way home from work, which is when I am juggling chainsaws. By the time my handsome husband walks in the door, I bear an uncanny resemblance to Harley Quinn after she dove into the vat of liquid acid.
Occasionally, I’ll get a phone call from a friend. Or a text message suggesting we “catch up sometime.” When these offers are genuine, my people will follow up with a reminder. Or two. A not-so-gentle-nudge that I need human company in order to preserve my own sanity.
There is a neurotransmitter called oxytocin, often referred to as the love hormone. It is produced by the hypothalamus and released by the pituitary gland.
Oxytocin is highest in new couples who are in that lusty honeymoon phase, and not only is oxytocin released during sexual intimacy, but higher levels of oxytocin increase the intensity of the orgasm.
Oxytocin increases trust, comfort in social situations, bonding during breastfeeding, mobility of sperm, positive communication, and fidelity.
There is even some research that shows that introducing synthetic oxytocin to those with autism may help them better understand and respond to social cues.
But…oxytocin has a built-in kill switch, a way to minimize mass orgies and overpopulation, so to speak. Oxytocin operates on a positive feedback mechanism: the release of oxytocin nudges the brain to produce more oxytocin. If you have given birth, you are already familiar with this process. It’s the same thing that happens when a mother breastfeeds a child. The more breastmilk you release, the more breastmilk you produce.
We don’t talk anymore. We don’t hug or kiss or share laughter and heartache. We use remote technology – and since half the time we can barely get a strong enough WiFi connection, you can be pretty sure that our devices aren’t transmitting our neurotransmitters.
Our physical ability to maintain some sort of happy homeostasis is waning. Rapidly.
And in my case…it’s my fault.
I have chosen to avoid the people I love. The people who will see right through my breezy pretense and lighthearted jokes about life in the pandemic.
(I’m big on V.C. Andrews references and labeling 2020 The Rapture)
I avoid the people I know and love, until my pot boils over. Until I’m crying, or screaming, or wake up in the morning to discover that my stress-induced sleepwalking has resulted in the (very, very, very likely possibility) that I (possibly) sleepwalked to my basement, opened the refrigerator, and inhaled 85% of a chocolate cake in a way that left remnants of a crime scene.
I want my people back. I want my self back.
So how do we rev up our oxytocin?
1) Hold your loved ones close. Literally. It doesn’t matter if it’s your cat, dog, guinea pig, or partner. An increase in physical intimacy – no dirty minds necessary – increases your brain’s production of oxytocin, which in turn signals more oxytocin. In short, if oxytocin were money, we would all be wealthier and wealthier.
2) Touch yourself. Or have someone else touch you – again, no dirty minds needed – a massage, a foot rub, a socially distanced hug, just do it. Your brain will be happier and your body will follow suit.
3) Do. Something. Daring. Bold. Brave. (But not stupid. Get your adrenaline pumping. Adrenaline nudges oxytocin which nudges your heart to open and your happiness to spike.
4) Stop avoiding social media. I know, I know, you think it’s “not helping you.” “Depressing.” Or maybe you keep comparing your life to others. Fair.
But turn it around. Why can’t social media be inspirational? Encouraging? Bucket-list worthy? That is what gets your neurotransmitters going.
5) Get naked. One way or another. Get a massage. Masturbate. Have sex. Watch your oxytocin levels fly sky high.
Also, remember your people. I forgot about mine for a bit in the midst of chaos and Corona. They have been fortunate enough to take me back. Yours will, too.
