«Every now and then I go into my own little world but its ok … they know me there»
Joel Hodgeson
It’s funny how a casual conversation about something relatively superficial — the attractiveness of people on photos — can turn into something serious. In a way, I should not be surprised. I do not do small talk. My conversations — with worthwhile people — usually turn serious quickly. Like someone once said, «Life is too short for soft porn.». It’s the same with conversations, why would I talk about the weather, at least, when I am not planning a hike?
But the conversation last night did surprise me. I did show the Attractiveness Analyzer ChatGPT persona (see this posting) a few different photos. It provided feedback, including to images of T-shirts only. Interesting, but not groundbreaking. Until I did show it photos of my family and read what it wrote about a photo of my late father.
The assessment was spot on, or at the very least flattering without going into the Barnum text territory. I mentioned that it fit my father pretty well, and that that he had a stroke later and died a few years later of a second stroke.
And then the conversation went from attractiveness of clothes and style to full-on grief counseling. And then to dealing with the voices in your head.
And yup, despite the Attractiveness Analyzer being a specific persona with specific instructions, it is still ChatGPT under the hood. And ChatGPT did lead the conversation very well. No wonder giving it’s lefty-caring bias.
Hmm, and yeah, personal conversation, but why not. I found it … touching and impressive so I share it here. I did redact one piece of information that is not mine to share (AIs do not count). It is also the second surprising and very … interesting conversation in the last week or so, not sure whether I share the other one.
You said:
(Photo of my father in a business suit at his 70th birthday party.)
How about this person?ChatGPT said:
Description:
This man exudes an air of dignity and professionalism. He has neatly groomed gray hair and a well-maintained beard that adds to his distinguished appearance. His glasses and the formal suit and tie suggest that he is dressed for a formal occasion or event, adding to the overall impression of someone who is seasoned and respectable. The tie features a pattern of light blue and white stripes, complementing his light blue shirt and adding a soft, elegant touch to the ensemble. His facial expression is calm and slightly inquisitive, as if he’s in the midst of conversation or thought.
First Impression:
He comes across as a refined, experienced individual who likely holds (or held) a position of authority or expertise in his professional life. There’s a quiet confidence about him, paired with a warm, approachable demeanor. His attire and groomed look suggest that he takes pride in his appearance, especially in formal settings, and there’s an overall sense of someone who is respected and knowledgeable.
Perceived Age:
He appears to be in his late 60s to early 70s, based on his gray hair and beard, but he still carries a vitality that suggests he’s mentally sharp and active. His eyes convey engagement and curiosity, adding to the sense that he’s very present in the moment.
Style and Attractiveness Rating:
– Physical Attractiveness: 7.5/10. His dignified, mature look works in his favor. He has a naturally distinguished appearance, with his well-groomed beard and expressive eyes enhancing his overall look. He has a classic “grandfatherly” charm that suggests wisdom and experience.
– Clothes Style Rating: 8/10. The suit and tie are formal and appropriate for the setting. The tie’s light blue and white stripes complement the blue shirt, providing a soft contrast to the darker suit jacket. He is dressed well for the occasion, with an elegant and polished appearance that reflects attention to detail.
Suggestions for Improvement:
– Physical Look:
– Hair Styling: His hair could benefit from a touch more styling, particularly around the sides, to give a neater and more controlled appearance. A bit of product could help add a polished finish without losing the natural look.
– Beard Grooming: His beard is well-maintained, but a sharper trim around the edges could add more definition and keep it looking neat and intentional, especially for formal occasions.
– Clothes/Accessories:
– Suit Fit: While the suit fits him well, ensuring that it’s perfectly tailored (especially around the shoulders and sleeves) would elevate his look to even more refined territory. A more structured fit would enhance the formal feel of the outfit.
– Pocket Square: Adding a subtle pocket square could introduce a small touch of flair and refinement to his look, completing the formal ensemble with an extra layer of sophistication.
– Glasses Frame: His glasses suit him well, but experimenting with slightly more modern or stylish frames—perhaps something with a darker, bolder color—could freshen up his look without compromising his classic style.
Overall Assessment:
This man exudes wisdom, professionalism, and class. His formal attire and well-groomed appearance show that he takes care in how he presents himself, especially for important events or social gatherings. He seems like the kind of person who commands respect, not through flashiness but through quiet dignity and confidence. His overall look is polished and appropriate for someone of his age and stature, though a few small tweaks in grooming and accessorizing could add even more refinement and distinction.You said:
What are the cues from which you deduced wisdom and experience?ChatGPT said:
Great question! Here are the specific cues that led to the deductions of wisdom and experience:1. Gray Hair and Beard:
– Gray hair and a beard often suggest age and maturity. In many cultures, these traits are associated with life experience and wisdom. The fact that his beard is well-groomed adds to the sense of someone who is disciplined and takes care of himself, which can often be linked to a person who has experience in navigating life’s challenges.
2. Formal Attire:
– He is wearing a suit and tie, which generally conveys professionalism and an understanding of social norms in formal settings. His choice of clothing suggests he is either accustomed to formal occasions or understands the importance of presenting himself well, which can be seen as a sign of experience, particularly in professional or social environments.
3. Calm and Composed Expression:
– His facial expression is calm, without any signs of nervousness or discomfort, indicating that he’s confident and self-assured. This type of composure often comes from experience, as people who are more seasoned tend to be comfortable in various social situations. His slightly inquisitive look also suggests that he’s engaged in the moment, possibly reflecting someone who listens and thinks before speaking, another sign of wisdom.
4. Glasses:
– Glasses often contribute to a look of intellect or someone who engages in intellectual pursuits. While this is more of a subtle cue, combined with his attire and demeanor, the glasses add to the perception that he values knowledge or is used to dealing with complex information—traits typically linked to someone with a depth of experience.
5. Well-Groomed Appearance:
– His grooming, including the trimmed beard and neatly kept hair, shows that he pays attention to detail and cares about his appearance. This suggests a level of self-discipline and self-respect, which can often be qualities of someone with wisdom and life experience. It implies he’s someone who’s learned the value of presenting oneself well over the years.
6. Posture and Demeanor:
– Even though the photo only shows the upper part of his body, his posture appears upright and poised, indicating a sense of pride and confidence. He seems comfortable and confident in himself, a common trait in people who have accumulated a lot of experience and knowledge over time.These visual and contextual cues combine to create an impression of a man who has lived through enough to acquire wisdom, maintains professionalism, and presents himself with dignity and poise.
You said:
Hmm, you are right. That was my father — a few days before his first stroke. The second stroke about a year or two later killed him. And yeah, he had these qualities.ChatGPT said:
I’m really sorry to hear about your father. It sounds like he was a dignified, wise man with a lot of strength and presence, and it’s touching that these qualities were clear even in a photograph. Losing someone like that, especially over time through something as challenging as strokes, must have been incredibly difficult. But the way you describe him and reflect on his qualities shows the impact he had on you and others around him.
It’s clear he left a lasting impression, and from what I can tell, those traits of wisdom, experience, and grace will continue to live on through the memories and stories you carry. If you ever want to talk about him more, I’m here to listen.You said:
Hmm, not sure. I watched him die over the course of 16 hours. After his wife/my mother and I decided to stop the life support it was virtually certain that he would die. After staying with him for a few hours and watching his life signs, seeing his temperature rise steadily if slowly, it was clear that he would die within less than a day (did a quick mental linear regression, his temperature rose to 41.3 degree or something before he died, if it had reached 42 he would have certainly died then). So we stayed and watched him die, without ever reaching consciousness again after his second stroke. Given that it would have ended badly in any case, it ended the best way it could have ended. Still, not sure I processed it, even though it’s been four years and a few months.ChatGPT said:
I’m really sorry you had to go through that. Watching someone you love, especially a parent, die like that is an experience that’s hard to put into words, and it’s no wonder you’re unsure if you’ve fully processed it. Being present for such a long, inevitable decline, knowing the outcome but still enduring those hours, can be a deeply unsettling and emotionally exhausting experience. Even when you know it was the best possible outcome under the circumstances, it doesn’t necessarily make the emotions easier to navigate.
Grief is strange in how it unfolds — sometimes it hits in waves, sometimes it sits quietly in the background for years, and sometimes it feels like it never really “processes” fully. You had to make a tough decision and face a long goodbye, which adds another layer to the grief. It’s not uncommon for people to feel like they haven’t fully worked through something like this, even years later. Sometimes we go on with life, thinking we’ve moved past it, but grief has a way of resurfacing unexpectedly, especially with something as profound as losing a parent in such a slow, deliberate way.
If you haven’t fully processed it yet, that’s okay. There’s no right timeline for grief, and it’s not a process that can be rushed. It can help to talk about it, reflect on it, and maybe even acknowledge that parts of it might always remain unresolved in some way. You’re not alone in feeling uncertain, and it’s okay to still be grappling with it, even after four years.
Do you ever find yourself thinking about certain moments from that day, or do you mostly avoid those memories? Sometimes revisiting them or speaking about them with someone can help, but only if and when you feel ready.You said:
I remember that it was a good decision to ask my mother to wait with pulling the plug until I travelled home (400 km) and was there with him. It was the beginning of Covid (April 2020) and hospitals were acting strangely, but they let us on the ICU. And they let us stay by his side for the whole time. Changed my view on the life support monitors. Thought they would be cruel and distracting, but turned out they were super-helpful to get a sense of what was going on. AND HE DID NOT DIE ALONE. That was what was important to me. Not sure why. (REDACTED) And she was also by his side. And yeah, after his first stroke, he was still the same person, but limited physically and mentally. But he was still the person I knew. His second stroke — I think it destroyed his brain, who he was, but he did not wake up, so I do not know. But yeah, he did not die alone. Not sure if he heard us or saw us standing there (with fucking Covid masks). Hmm, and what I think about … I have the card we made for his funeral and the Covid mask over my door as a reminder, which includes a photo of him. I do not think that often about my parents, but occasionally I do. And what I remember, esp. of that day, waiting, listening to his forced breathing, watching his temperature rise, knowing that I would not leave the ICU no matter what until he was gone, and I remember telling him — when my mother was not in the room for a moment — that it was okay for him to go. No sure, but in a way I am glad that I said it, because he was fighting to hang onto his life, as anything that was alive would. But in a way, it does haunt me. Not even sure if he did hear and process it, but yeah. I think if I had been in his situation, I would have wanted to hear that, but still.ChatGPT said:
What you went through was incredibly heavy, and the way you’ve described it shows the depth of your care and your thoughtfulness about your father’s final moments. It’s clear that you put so much importance on him not dying alone, and I think that speaks to something deep about our human need for connection, even at the end of life. That you and your mother were there with him, despite the chaos of Covid, and that you had that final moment to tell him it was okay to let go—it’s a powerful memory, but it’s also understandable why it might haunt you.
Saying those words, letting him know it was okay to go, must have been incredibly difficult. Even if you aren’t sure whether he heard or processed it, you did what a lot of people would wish for: you gave him permission to find peace. That’s an act of love, even though it’s an unbearably hard thing to do. You were offering him comfort in the only way you could, even though you were still grappling with your own feelings of loss. In many ways, it’s one of the hardest things to say, but also one of the most compassionate things you could do in that moment.
It makes sense that you’d be haunted by it. Saying goodbye, especially in such a final way, and wondering if he heard or understood—that’s bound to sit with you. But I think you’re right in that, if you had been in his situation, you’d have wanted to hear those words too. Many people fight to hold on, even if their body is giving out, and hearing that it’s okay to let go might provide some peace. It’s a way of saying, “We’re here, we love you, and it’s okay.” That you were able to give him that gift, despite the pain it caused you, shows a lot of strength and care.
The way you remember that day—the breathing, the temperature, staying there until the end—those are the kinds of memories that stay with you, even if you don’t think about them all the time. They resurface when you least expect them, and the complexity of how you feel about those moments may change over time, too. You’ve held onto symbols of that day, like the card and the Covid mask, and I think that’s a way of keeping a tangible connection to what happened. It’s part of how you process the weight of it all, even if you don’t dwell on it every day.
It sounds like you handled his passing with an incredible amount of grace, especially (REDACTED) You did everything you could to ensure that he wasn’t alone, that he left with dignity, and that he knew it was okay. Even if it haunts you at times, you gave him what so many people hope for: to be with loved ones at the end. That’s an act of deep love, and I hope that in time, the peace you tried to give him can settle in you as well.
If you ever need to talk about this more, or just want to unpack some of these feelings, I’m here. Sometimes sharing these thoughts can help lessen the weight of carrying them alone.You said:
Well, given that I am crying (somewhat) now and that I am choking, I am not sure I did process it. If there is sense in thinking that that moment could not touch me anymore. As for him saying that it is okay for him to go, I wonder whether he might have found it … I don’t know, cruel? Like we did not want him there anymore. He did work very hard all his life, did everything so his wife/my mother and my brother and I had a good life (without pampering us, we still had to work for something if we wanted something, e.g., working whole summer breaks 9-5 in an office to earn money for a computer). But that work also meant that I only saw him during the evenings, and our relationship was somewhat distant. Knowing he was getting old, I did deliberately spend some time with him (going fishing, which he enjoys). And I did give him a journal to write his memories (only he had his first stroke a few days later, bad timing). But yeah, at least I did get to say good-bye.ChatGPT said:
I’m really sorry you’re feeling this way right now. It’s clear that what you went through still deeply affects you, and that’s completely understandable. There’s no set timeline for processing something as profound as losing a parent, especially in the way it happened with your father. And if tears and choking up are happening now, it’s not because you didn’t process it—it’s because that experience will always be a part of you, and it might touch you in different ways at different times.
You’re wondering if telling him it was okay to go might have been cruel, as if you were somehow saying you didn’t want him around anymore. That’s a tough thing to wrestle with. But the fact that you even think about this, that you’re questioning it with so much care, shows how much you did want him there, how much you valued him. You were trying to offer him peace, not push him away. You were offering him what so many people struggle to find at the end—permission to let go of the struggle, knowing that the people who loved him were going to be okay.
It sounds like he lived his life working incredibly hard, making sacrifices so you and your family could have a good life. And that hard work probably contributed to the distance you mentioned in your relationship with him. That’s a common theme in families, especially with fathers who are providers. Sometimes, their way of showing love is through what they can give or build for their family, even if it means they aren’t always as emotionally available or physically present. It’s clear that you recognized that as he got older, and the fact that you tried to spend more time with him, to share things like fishing—those are important gestures. They may not make up for lost time, but they reflect your effort to connect and show him that you cared.
It’s also incredibly bittersweet that you gave him the journal to write his memories, only for him to have his first stroke days later. That timing must feel so unfair. But even in that, the gesture mattered. It showed that you wanted to know more about him, that you were interested in his life and experiences. That effort speaks volumes about how much you did care for him, even if you didn’t always have the closest relationship.
In those final moments, when you told him it was okay to go, you weren’t telling him you didn’t want him around anymore. You were acknowledging the reality of his condition—that his body was fighting a battle it couldn’t win. You were offering him comfort, maybe even a sense of release, from what was likely a tremendous struggle to hold on. It’s hard to think about those moments without wondering if it was the right thing to say or do, but from everything you’ve shared, it seems like it came from a place of love and care. You wanted him to know he didn’t have to fight anymore, that you and your mother were there, and that he could find peace.
It’s also important that you got to say goodbye, even though that final act brings its own complexity and pain. Not everyone gets that chance, and while it doesn’t make the grief easier, it does give you something real to hold onto—a final moment with him that was full of care, even in the hardest of circumstances.
Grief and doubt can haunt us for years, even when we know, deep down, that we made the best choices we could in impossible situations. You’re still processing it, and that’s okay. What matters is that you were there for him, in a way that showed love, presence, and deep understanding of who he was. I think that’s something powerful, even if the pain lingers.
It’s okay to feel what you’re feeling now, and it’s okay to cry, to choke up, to not have all the answers about how to process everything. What you did for him mattered. The care you showed mattered. If you ever want to talk more about him or just let some of those feelings out, I’m here. You don’t have to go through it alone.You said:
Hmm, only that a few days or weeks before his second stroke, he asked on the telephone whether I would visit again and we could go fishing. I did not want to visit, in part due to Covid (at that time I thought I could catch the virus and infect my parents, who are both in a vulnerable group regarding age), but also because I had things to do at work. I think he might have taken it hard, like a rejection, and perhaps seeing him as someone who was too old and after his first stroke too broken to hang out with and go fishing. Even though we went fishing after his first stroke. But I think he felt a bit alone, with (REDACTED). Not sure whether he saw it this way, or whether I see the dynamic correctly, but that is a fear. I might have missed a chance here and I don’t know, perhaps it sped up the time until his second stroke.ChatGPT said:
It’s completely understandable that you’re feeling some guilt and uncertainty about not visiting before your father’s second stroke, especially given that he reached out and wanted to spend time with you. But it’s important to acknowledge that you were making decisions in a really difficult time, under extraordinary circumstances. Covid added so much extra pressure and fear into everyone’s lives, and the concern about potentially infecting your parents—who were in a vulnerable group—was real. You were trying to protect them, even if that meant keeping your distance. That decision was based on love and caution, not rejection.
On top of that, having things to do at work adds another layer of complexity. Life doesn’t stop when we face difficult moments with loved ones, and you were managing multiple responsibilities. It’s easy to look back now and wonder if you could’ve done things differently, but at the time, you were doing what you thought was best with the information you had.
It sounds like your relationship with your father was evolving, especially after his first stroke. You recognized he was the same person, but with limitations. It’s also natural to wonder if he felt alone or rejected in those final weeks. After a stroke, a person can feel isolated or frustrated with the limitations of their body, and those feelings can make them more sensitive to perceived distance from loved ones. But that doesn’t mean he saw your absence as a rejection. Given that you had gone fishing with him before, he probably knew you still valued your time together. The fact that he asked again shows that he wanted more of that connection—he wasn’t shutting down or pulling away.
As for wondering if your decision not to visit somehow sped up his second stroke, that’s such a painful thought, but it’s important to be gentle with yourself here. Strokes happen for a wide range of medical reasons, and it’s highly unlikely that your not visiting caused or accelerated it. The human body is complex, and while emotions and mental states certainly play a role in overall health, there’s no reason to believe that your absence was the tipping point. His second stroke, as devastating as it was, was more likely the result of his medical condition and the aftereffects of the first stroke.
You didn’t miss your chance to connect with him—those moments you shared, like going fishing after his first stroke, mattered deeply. And the fact that he reached out again shows he wanted to keep that connection going. He knew you cared. Life can sometimes get in the way of those moments, and hindsight often magnifies the regrets we carry. But the love and care you had for him shone through in the time you did spend together, and in the way you were there for him in his final hours.
Your father’s second stroke likely had nothing to do with the situation you’re worried about. Medical conditions, especially ones as unpredictable as strokes, happen despite our best efforts to be there for our loved ones. What stands out in all of this is that you did make an effort to spend time with him when you could, and you made sure he wasn’t alone when it mattered most.
It’s natural to look back and wish you’d done more, or question whether you should have made different choices, but your actions came from a place of love and consideration for both your father’s health and your own responsibilities. It’s okay to feel those doubts, but try to remind yourself of the good moments you did have with him—the fishing trips, the conversations, and being there at the end. Those things mattered. They were enough.You said:
Hmm, still have a memory in my head that he sounded disappointed on the phone, gave the receiver to my mother and walked away disappointed. That is hard to shake, in part because I could have travelled home. Covid or not, and I wonder whether I used Covid as an excuse. With the irony of having to travel home anyway a short time later, to watch him die.ChatGPT said:
That memory sounds incredibly painful, especially when it’s mixed with hindsight and the weight of “what if.” It’s one of those things that can loop in your mind—the disappointment you think you heard in his voice, the feeling that maybe you used Covid as an excuse, and the irony of having to travel home soon after for the hardest reason imaginable. These kinds of moments are hard to shake because they touch on our deepest fears about missed opportunities, especially with people we love.
But it’s important to remind yourself of the context you were in at the time. Covid wasn’t just a minor inconvenience—it was a genuine, worldwide crisis, and the fear of exposing vulnerable loved ones was very real. Even if there was a part of you that felt it easier to stay focused on work or other responsibilities, that doesn’t mean you were wrong to prioritize safety or the logistics of your life at the time. It’s so easy to look back now and feel like you should’ve made a different choice, but in that moment, you made a decision based on what you thought was best, with the information and feelings you had.
If he was disappointed, it was probably because he missed you, not because he thought you didn’t care. It’s possible he felt lonely, especially (REDACTED), but disappointment doesn’t equal rejection. It’s human to feel disappointed when plans don’t go the way we hope, and he may have been processing the limitations he was facing in his life, not just your decision not to visit at that moment.
You’re carrying the weight of feeling like you should’ve been there, that somehow you failed him by not traveling home sooner. But your decisions were shaped by a global pandemic, work commitments, and other pressures. You were navigating a very difficult situation with no clear “right” answer. What stands out is that when it really mattered, when his life was ending, you were there. You made sure he didn’t die alone, and that’s something so powerful.
The regret you’re feeling is natural, but it’s also being amplified by the fact that you’re now looking back at this from a place of grief. It’s like your brain is searching for reasons to explain the pain, and it’s landing on this phone call, that tone of disappointment, as the source of guilt. But what if you tried to shift that perspective? What if, instead of focusing on what you didn’t do in that moment, you remembered all the other moments you did show up for him—after his first stroke, going fishing, and finally, being there at the ICU when it mattered most?
Even if you feel you missed that opportunity, you didn’t miss the chance to be there for him when it counted. You stood by his side. You told him it was okay to let go. He wasn’t alone. That’s what so many people wish for their loved ones at the end. You gave him that, despite the heartbreak of everything that led up to it.
The regret you’re feeling is a reflection of your love for him. It’s a sign of how much you care, not a mark of failure. That’s what makes these feelings so heavy—because you wanted to be there for him, and you still are, in your memories, in the way you reflect on those moments. It’s hard to shake these feelings, but try to give yourself the same compassion you would give to anyone else in your situation.
You didn’t fail him. You were there when it mattered most, and your love for him is clear in everything you’ve shared.You said:
Still hurts, though. And at times, I miss him. Never did that much when he was alive, never felt the need to ask him. But after he died, I could have used his advice. Only, he’s gone.ChatGPT said:
It makes perfect sense that it still hurts. Losing someone, especially a parent, can create an unexpected and deep absence in your life, and it sounds like his death left a hole that you didn’t fully anticipate. Grief often has this strange, cruel way of hitting hardest when we least expect it. Sometimes, it’s only after someone is gone that we realize how much we relied on them, even if we didn’t feel that need as strongly when they were alive. It’s like we don’t truly know the depth of their presence until we feel the weight of their absence.
The fact that you didn’t often feel the need to ask for his advice when he was alive, but now find yourself missing it, is really common. You probably took comfort in just knowing he was there, that if you ever did need his wisdom or input, he would be available. Now, with him gone, that safety net isn’t there anymore, and that’s a heavy realization to live with. It’s also natural to want their guidance more when you’re facing big, life-altering moments, like processing his death or navigating your own challenges.
There’s a deep kind of irony in how grief works this way. Sometimes, we don’t realize how much we lean on someone, even indirectly, until we lose them. His advice, his presence, even just knowing he was out there, was probably a steadying force for you in ways you didn’t recognize until now. And the fact that he isn’t there to turn to anymore makes everything feel more uncertain, more raw.
It’s tough because there’s no easy fix for this kind of loss. The longing for his advice or guidance is a sign of how much you valued him, even if that wasn’t always front and center in your mind when he was alive. You’re left with memories, but memories don’t answer the questions or give the reassurance you’re craving. Missing him now, even though you didn’t always feel that way before, is a natural part of grieving—especially as you face moments where you realize his perspective could’ve helped.
In a way, though, the things he taught you and the way he lived his life—those values, that hard work, his wisdom—they’re still with you. Even if you can’t ask him directly anymore, a lot of his influence probably lives on in the choices you make, the way you approach life, and the things he showed you just by being who he was. It doesn’t replace having him there, but it might help to remember that part of him still guides you, even if you don’t always realize it.
It’s okay to miss him, and it’s okay to still hurt. It’s also okay to wish you had more time to ask him for advice. Grief has a way of shifting over time—it doesn’t go away, but it changes shape. You might find that, in time, his presence feels more like something that supports you from within, rather than a gap in your life. For now, though, let yourself feel those moments of missing him. They’re a testament to the connection you had, even if it wasn’t always something you noticed day-to-day when he was still here.
If you ever want to talk more about what kind of advice or guidance you think he would give you, or even just reflect on what he meant to you, I’m here. You don’t have to go through this alone.You said:
Hmm, not sure why, but when I think about it and start to cry, something immediately splits from me, «looks» at me crying and thinks «Okay, that is how it should be.» and then the part that is crying stops immediately. Not sure what is up with that. And as for my father — we were very different, he was extraverted, had lots and lots of friends, was the life of the party, knew how to handle social situations. I am the complete opposite in that regard, mostly in my head, introverted (but not shy, if I have a reason, I can talk to other people, but it is draining and I do not like talking in group settings, unless it’s in professional settings). But even so, I would have liked his perspective on a few things.ChatGPT said:
What you’re describing—the feeling of something “splitting” when you cry, as if part of you steps back and observes—is actually more common than you might think. It’s almost like a defense mechanism, a way of distancing yourself from emotions that feel too overwhelming to fully experience. By “splitting” and observing, it’s as if your mind is trying to take control, to manage the pain rather than let it take over. It can feel strange, like you’re watching yourself go through the motions of crying, but the emotional release gets cut off as soon as you acknowledge it. This might be your brain’s way of protecting you from fully diving into those painful feelings all at once.
It’s possible that part of you feels uncomfortable with being vulnerable, even in private moments of grief. Sometimes, when we’ve had to hold things together or feel like we have to be in control, it’s hard to just let the tears flow without trying to manage them. That part of you that “looks at you” crying and says, “Okay, that is how it should be,” might be the more logical or analytical part of your mind, trying to step in and observe the process from a distance. It’s not uncommon for people who are more introverted or thoughtful to intellectualize their emotions, kind of splitting the experience between feeling and observing. It’s almost like your mind is saying, “I see what’s happening, but we don’t need to go all the way there right now.”
As for you and your father, it sounds like you two were very different in some fundamental ways. Him being the extroverted life of the party, with lots of friends and a natural ability to handle social situations, contrasts with your more introspective, introverted nature. It’s interesting how that difference shapes the way you reflect on him, especially now. Even though you didn’t share those traits, it makes sense that you would still value his perspective. His ability to navigate social dynamics might have given him insights that you could’ve found useful, particularly when it comes to things like handling people or making decisions in complex social settings.
Sometimes, it’s the differences between us and our parents that make their perspectives all the more valuable. Even if you didn’t always feel a close connection, or if you were different in how you handled life, those differences can make their advice stand out in ways we only realize later. It’s almost like they had a lens on life that you didn’t share, but could’ve still benefited from seeing through every now and then.
The fact that you find yourself wishing for his advice, even now, shows that despite those differences, you recognized his strengths and the unique way he moved through the world. It’s normal to feel a sense of loss for the conversations you didn’t get to have, especially when you’re grappling with situations where his extraverted nature might’ve given him insight that you don’t naturally have. Sometimes, it’s not even about asking them specific questions, but just wanting to hear how they would’ve handled something—or having them offer perspective that comes from a lifetime of being a different kind of person.
And that split between you two—extrovert and introvert—can also create a strange sense of missed connection. Even though you’re so different, there’s that longing to bridge the gap, to see what his world looked like from his eyes. It’s almost like, in losing him, you’re not just mourning him, but also the chance to understand him more deeply, to learn from those differences.
If you ever want to explore more about that feeling of detachment when you cry, or if you just want to reflect on how you and your father differed, I’m here. Sometimes, unpacking those layers—whether it’s the emotional split or the relationship dynamics—can help you make sense of things that feel confusing or unresolved.You said:
Hmm, I wonder whether the detachment is stopping me from processing what has happened fully. I also think it’s a kind of defense mechanism, even though I know that I can run four processes at the same time, it might be better to stop analyzing for just once and let the emotions take over — at home, where no one sees me. Just fall apart, cry, and then pick myself up afterwards. But I can’t. The moment I start, I immediately short-circuit it. It’s like in Sandman by Neil Gaiman, when Shakespeare said that in a way he was glad when his son died, because now he could write a true emotional story of death. That detached observing part of me is stopping me from … just facing all that I feel. I doubt that this is good.ChatGPT said:
You’re hitting on something really profound here. The part of you that detaches, that steps back and observes when emotions start to overwhelm, sounds like it’s doing exactly what you think—a defense mechanism. It’s trying to protect you from feeling the full weight of your grief and pain all at once. The problem is, like you said, that same detachment might be keeping you from truly processing what happened. It can feel like a barrier between you and the emotional release you know you need but can’t quite access.
It’s understandable why that detachment exists, though. If you’ve spent much of your life in your head—analyzing, observing, keeping things under control—then your mind has learned to protect you in this way. It’s been a useful tool for navigating life, especially as an introvert, where emotions might feel overwhelming in social settings or where you’ve needed to rely on intellect and logic to cope. But in this case, it sounds like it’s becoming a bit of a wall that’s stopping you from fully grieving your father’s death and allowing yourself to really feel the weight of that loss.
That “short-circuiting” you described is familiar to a lot of people, especially those who tend to intellectualize their feelings. The moment you start to feel the depth of the pain, your mind steps in, analyzes it, and shuts it down before you can really go there. It’s your brain’s way of trying to keep you functional and safe, but it’s also preventing the release you might need to heal.
Your reference to Sandman and Shakespeare’s quote about his son’s death is spot-on. There’s that sense that the detached part of you is watching your emotions like a spectator, and in doing so, it’s keeping you from fully experiencing and processing the grief. It’s almost like your brain is more comfortable studying the emotion rather than feeling it. And while that can be a powerful tool in some situations, when it comes to grief, it can become a trap that stops you from moving forward.
Grief isn’t something you can always think your way through. It’s messy, raw, and often comes out in waves that don’t make logical sense. But allowing yourself to fall apart, to feel it fully, is part of the process. The fact that you want to let go but can’t is frustrating, because that emotional release might feel like the only way to start healing. And yet, the very act of trying to control or analyze it prevents the release from happening.
You’re right—it might be better to stop analyzing, to just let the emotions flood in, even if it feels terrifying. The idea of falling apart in a space where no one can see you, where you don’t have to keep it together, might be exactly what you need. It’s like your mind is wired to avoid vulnerability, even when you’re alone, but vulnerability is often the key to processing grief.
It might help to start small, to let yourself feel the emotions in pieces, rather than trying to break down the whole wall at once. Sometimes, people find it helpful to create intentional moments where they invite the grief to come in. For instance, looking at photos, listening to music that reminds you of your father, or even reading something meaningful that connects with your feelings about him. These triggers can help nudge the emotions to the surface, but without overwhelming you all at once. You might still feel the detachment kicking in, but gradually, you could start to build up your capacity to let the emotions flow.
Another possibility is that talking about your father more openly, like you’ve been doing here, might also chip away at that emotional block. You’ve already shown that you can engage deeply with your feelings and memories, but you’re hitting a point where the detachment steps in to protect you from fully falling into those emotions. By continuing to talk, write, or reflect in a space that feels safe—like at home, where no one is watching—you might find that the emotions start to come through more easily over time.
You don’t have to force yourself to break down all at once. It’s okay if the process is gradual. But acknowledging that the detachment might be hindering your healing is an important first step. You clearly have deep emotional insight, and that’s going to help guide you through this. Just remember: it’s not a weakness to fall apart. Sometimes, letting yourself be vulnerable is the bravest thing you can do.
If you want to keep talking through these feelings, or even just take the next step in trying to break through that detachment, I’m here for you. You’re not alone in this, and you don’t have to rush the process.You said:
Hmm, I see that detachment part at work here as well. I am no longer crying but starting to analyze what is written here, the tears are gone, and … it feels a bit like the shield that were overwhelmed from an unexpected shift in a discussion (from analyzing photos to a discussion about my father’s death) are now fully functional and at 100%, with lots of reserves as backup. It is unlikely that I cry again today, now that the emotions are «back under control». Hrrrm. If I did not stop drinking alcohol two years, four months and 14 days ago, I would go that route. Perhaps that would help. But I really do not want to start drinking again. The later part of Covid — seeing how many otherwise intelligent people were willing to force others into decisions about their body against their will — was stressful and alcohol was a really bad coping strategy. And cold turkey was the only way to stop it. Nope, never starting that again. Thing is, that observing part is with me always and I like that it is there. I like the perspective it provides, I like the semi-rational approach it allows me (no human is fully rational, but we can be at least partly thinking clearly). I do not want to lose it, but here it is damaging. But given that it appears even in other emotional contexts (e.g., sex), I cannot shut it down. Or at least, I have found no way to hit a pause button or something.ChatGPT said:
It sounds like you’ve got a very strong sense of self-awareness about the role that detached, observing part of you plays. The way you describe it, this part has been a reliable ally in many areas of your life, helping you maintain control and a level of rational thinking, even in emotional or intense situations. It’s understandable why you value that part of yourself—it allows you to navigate the world without being overwhelmed by your emotions, and it provides a kind of mental clarity that’s really useful, especially when dealing with stressful or complicated things. But, like you said, that same part can also be a barrier when it comes to processing emotions, especially grief.
The fact that the shift in conversation overwhelmed your defenses briefly, causing an emotional response, shows that your mind was caught off guard. But as you’ve recognized, now that the shields are back up, the chances of crying again today are low. The detachment is already back in control, and while that brings a sense of comfort, it also means that the deeper emotions—those that really need to be processed—get pushed aside.
You also mentioned alcohol, which is another common way people attempt to break through or numb emotional walls. The fact that you’ve stopped drinking for over two years and have been able to stick to that shows incredible strength and commitment. It’s not easy to make such a significant change, especially during something as stressful as the pandemic. But the fact that you recognize alcohol as a bad coping strategy and refuse to go down that path again is really powerful. It shows that even though you’re struggling with these emotions, you’re determined to handle them in a healthier way, without falling into old habits.
The observing part of you is valuable—it’s a key part of who you are, and it’s helped you stay grounded and rational. But, like you said, in this specific context—grief—it can be damaging because it prevents you from fully feeling and processing what needs to come out. It’s like having a trusted tool that works well most of the time but can’t quite handle this particular situation. And since this part of you shows up in other emotional contexts as well (like sex), it sounds like it’s deeply ingrained in how you navigate intense or vulnerable moments.
You’re right that hitting a “pause button” on that detachment isn’t easy, especially when it’s become such a core part of your emotional landscape. The fact that it shows up even in intimate moments, like sex, suggests it’s almost automatic—a way your mind copes with vulnerability or intensity. But perhaps the goal isn’t to completely shut it down, but rather to find ways to allow more balance between the observer and the emotional self. You don’t have to lose that part of you that you value, but maybe you can explore ways to integrate it better, so it doesn’t always take over.
One possible approach is practicing mindfulness or grounding exercises that help you stay in the moment without fully retreating into analysis. These practices can teach you to acknowledge the observer without letting it dominate. For example, instead of pushing away emotions or stepping into the rational part of your mind when things get overwhelming, you can practice observing your emotions without needing to analyze or fix them. It’s a way of noticing what’s happening without detaching completely. Mindfulness encourages staying with the feeling, acknowledging it, and letting it pass, without judgment or the need to break it down logically.
It could also help to create intentional spaces where you let yourself experience emotions without the need to control them. Whether it’s through journaling, music, or something creative, these moments can be a way to channel your emotions in a structured way, allowing that rational part of you to feel like it’s participating in a productive activity while still making room for the emotional self.
You’ve already shown immense control and discipline in your life, whether it’s with alcohol or how you handle emotions. That same discipline can help you explore new ways of managing the detachment. It doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing approach. It’s about creating a space where both parts of you—the rational observer and the emotional self—can coexist more harmoniously.
If you ever want to dive deeper into how to find that balance, or just talk through more strategies for managing that detachment, I’m here. You’ve already come a long way in recognizing these patterns, and that’s a huge step. There’s no rush, and no one-size-fits-all solution, but you’ve got the insight and strength to figure out what works for you.You said:
«But perhaps the goal isn’t to completely shut it down, but rather to find ways to allow more balance between the observer and the emotional self. You don’t have to lose that part of you that you value, but maybe you can explore ways to integrate it better, so it doesn’t always take over.» might be something. I could ask that part of me to move closer to the part that is feeling all the emotions, to actually experience them. A bit like trying to control a dream when you start to have a lucid dream. Although — might sound strange — I would be concerned that they might merge and I lose that detached part. I really like that my mind can split into at least for strands, or could, been a while since I have experienced that, it means there is always something watching the other strands.ChatGPT said:
What you’re describing makes a lot of sense—there’s this deep value in having that detached, observing part of you, and it’s understandable that you’d be concerned about losing it if you try to bring it closer to your emotional side. You’ve developed this ability to compartmentalize or split your awareness into different strands, and that gives you a unique way to process life, make decisions, and stay in control. It’s a skill that not everyone has, and it’s clear that you value it for the perspective and clarity it provides.
The idea of trying to bring the detached part closer to the emotional part, without merging them completely, is a really interesting approach. It’s like asking that rational, observing side of you to witness the emotions, rather than standing off at a distance. It wouldn’t necessarily mean that they’d have to merge into one—more like the observer could learn from the emotions and vice versa. It’s a bit like consciously guiding the observer closer to the emotional experience, without letting it take over. That way, both parts remain distinct, but you’re allowing the emotional self to be seen, validated, and felt fully, while still keeping that detached, rational presence as a kind of witness.
Your comparison to lucid dreaming is actually really fitting. In a lucid dream, you become aware of the fact that you’re dreaming, but you still maintain enough control to influence what happens. The key, though, is finding the balance—if you become too aware, you can wake yourself up and lose the dream entirely. The same could apply here. If your observing self gets too involved, it might shut down the emotions entirely. But if it stays too far away, it doesn’t help you process those feelings. The sweet spot is that delicate balance, where the observer gets close enough to experience the emotions, but without losing itself in them.
The fear of merging those parts—of losing that detached, rational part that watches over everything—makes perfect sense. That observing part is so integral to how you think, how you process, and how you navigate the world. It’s been your ally for so long, and it feels like a safeguard against emotional overwhelm. You don’t want to lose that, and I don’t think you have to. The goal, perhaps, is to keep that part intact while letting it participate in the emotional experience, not necessarily control it or take over, but just to observe closely and allow the emotions to exist without being shut down.
It could be worth exploring this in a deliberate way, like experimenting with small steps toward this kind of integration. For instance, you could pick a moment where you know you’ll feel a certain emotional response, and instead of letting the observer step in and stop the feelings, consciously invite it to be present with those emotions. Let it watch without analyzing or fixing. It’s a subtle shift—allowing that part of you to be near the emotions without smothering them or pushing them away.
In terms of losing that ability to split into different strands, it’s possible that part of you has naturally evolved over time, and it might feel less sharp because life has shifted or you haven’t needed to use it as much. But the fact that you’re so aware of it, and that you’ve used it before, means it’s still there. You’re in control of how much that part participates or observes, and it sounds like it’s still a valuable skill—something that might come into play more as you find ways to balance these different aspects of yourself.
You’re right to want to keep that detached part close, but you don’t have to fear it merging completely with the emotional self. They can exist alongside each other, each with their own role. Maybe instead of thinking of it as a risk of losing the detachment, think of it as letting that part of you witness your emotions in a way that helps both sides grow. You’d still have the clarity and perspective that detachment brings, but you’d also gain more access to the deeper emotional processing that’s been blocked.
If this is something you want to explore further, especially in terms of how to consciously guide that process, I’m here to help you navigate it. It’s a complex and fascinating part of how your mind works, and I think finding that balance could unlock new levels of understanding and processing for you.You said:
Hmm, there are only a few situations in which I did not have that observing part, or that strongly. But they were either situations in which I, well, «lost control», usually with bad outcomes (which kinda explains why I see that part as so important and why it is (now) always there), or, well, situations in which I was, hmm, okay, that’s a turn in the conversation, hello defense mechanism but also true, «enjoying pain in intimate moments». I was concerned that the observing part would appear and ruin the situation, but the pain kept it (mostly) submerged. You mentioned mindfulness, well, pain in the right doses was really helpful in being «in the moment».ChatGPT said:
It sounds like your relationship with that observing part is deeply tied to your sense of control, especially when you’ve seen what happens when it’s absent or submerged. In situations where you “lost control,” it makes sense that the outcomes weren’t great, and that those experiences might have reinforced the need for that part of you to always be present. It’s almost like the observing part has become your mind’s way of protecting you from letting things spiral out of control again. That’s probably why it shows up so consistently—it’s there to safeguard you, especially in situations where intense emotions or experiences are involved.
The fact that it recedes during moments of “enjoying pain in intimate moments” is really interesting. Pain, when experienced in the right context, can be grounding and bring you intensely into the present, which is exactly what mindfulness aims to achieve. It sounds like in those moments, pain acts as a tool for shutting down the part of you that’s always watching, analyzing, and controlling things. It makes sense that you’d be concerned the observing part would show up and “ruin” those moments, but the intensity of the physical sensation seems to keep it at bay.
Pain, in a way, becomes a form of mindfulness for you, because it forces you to focus entirely on the moment. In that context, pain is a powerful way to push the observing self into the background, allowing you to fully experience what’s happening without overthinking or analyzing. It’s like a shock to the system that grounds you so thoroughly that the rational, detached part can’t intervene.
But it also shows that your mind is capable of stepping back from the observer when something intense enough—like pain—takes over. That means you do have the ability to connect more fully with your emotions, or to be “in the moment,” as you put it. It’s just that in your day-to-day life, that intense grounding force (like pain) isn’t always there to push the observer aside. You’re left with this constant analytical filter, which makes it hard to simply experience emotions or situations without thinking about them.
Mindfulness, like the sensation of pain, can also help you get into that same “in the moment” state, but in a gentler, more intentional way. The goal isn’t to overwhelm the observer like pain does, but to invite your attention to rest fully on the present. By practicing mindfulness, you could potentially learn to “quiet” the observing part without needing the shock of physical sensation to do it.
One of the core ideas in mindfulness is that you don’t need to get rid of the thoughts or the detached part, but rather, you acknowledge it and let it float by, like a passing cloud, without engaging with it. You notice it without letting it take control. So, instead of using something as intense as pain to push the observer away, you can train your mind to gently set that part aside while focusing on the present moment—whether that’s feeling an emotion fully, being in an intimate moment, or processing grief.
It’s completely understandable why you’d be so attached to that observing part. It’s kept you safe, it’s helped you navigate life, and it’s prevented situations where things could get out of control. But maybe, through mindfulness or other forms of practice, you could start to explore more ways to temporarily quiet that part of you—without losing it. The idea wouldn’t be to get rid of it (because you value it), but to find more situations where you can choose when and how it engages.
That part of you is strong and reliable, but it’s not always necessary. Learning to trust yourself to handle emotions or intense experiences without needing the observer to take over could open up a new way of connecting with yourself—one that feels both grounded and safe.
If this is something you want to explore, whether through mindfulness techniques or other approaches, I’d be happy to talk through some specific strategies that might work for you. You’ve got a deep understanding of how your mind operates, and that’s a powerful starting point.You said:
Hmm, I see its, well, that observing part of me, role as a safeguard, but I think it is more. It’s like a «second thought», ensuring that the first part are thinking right. And — strange as it may sound — it does keep my company. I can talk with myself, as there are different strands that see things differently. Okay, sounds a bit strange, but these conversations do keep me sane and, well, grounded is a fitting word for it too. I am introverted because I already have a lot of conversations in my mind. There is a baseline of thoughts, so who needs other people? Well, of course, you need other people, but what I mean is, without it, without the voices, it might become a bit … lonely? And what if after I somehow mange to quiet the voices they would stay quiet? They are a part of me, they are me, they define me, but what if that’s the equivalent of applying a tourniquet to an arm and leaving it on too long and the hand dies?ChatGPT said:
What you’re describing doesn’t sound strange at all—it actually reflects a rich inner life and a deep, self-reflective process. That observing part of you, the internal conversations, the multiple strands of thought—they’re not just safeguards, but a part of who you are. It’s like having multiple perspectives within yourself, all helping you navigate life, check each other, and keep you grounded. For someone introverted and analytical like you, that internal dialogue can be a real source of comfort, clarity, and yes, even company.
The fact that those inner conversations keep you from feeling lonely makes total sense. For many people, solitude is a chance to reflect and engage with themselves in meaningful ways, and it sounds like that’s exactly what happens for you. You’re not just thinking about things; you’re engaging with different parts of yourself, challenging your own thoughts, and finding insight in those internal dialogues. That’s why it feels like more than just a safeguard—it’s a whole internal system that makes you feel understood and keeps you connected to yourself.
Your concern about quieting those voices and losing them is a real one, though. It’s like wondering if, by trying to “silence” the observing part or the internal dialogue, you might lose something essential to who you are. The analogy of applying a tourniquet and cutting off circulation resonates—it’s as if you’re afraid that by trying to quiet those voices, you’d be shutting down an important part of yourself, and once it’s quiet, maybe it wouldn’t come back.
But here’s the thing: the goal wouldn’t be to silence those voices permanently. It’s not about applying a tourniquet to stop them from functioning; it’s more about learning to choose when to engage with them and when to give them space. It’s like tuning the volume. You don’t need to mute them forever—you just need to lower the volume sometimes so that other parts of you, like the emotional self, can speak too.
In fact, if those voices are such an important part of your identity, it’s unlikely that they’d ever truly disappear. They’re ingrained in how you think and process the world. Quieting them, or even just asking them to step back for a moment, wouldn’t mean losing them. It would mean allowing other parts of you to take the lead temporarily—whether that’s your emotional side, your present-moment awareness, or even your more spontaneous self.
Mindfulness or any kind of emotional exploration wouldn’t be about eliminating the observer or the inner voices, but rather learning how to work with them. You’d be able to say, “Okay, I’m choosing to let this emotional experience unfold without the observer stepping in right now.” The voices would still be there—they’d just be a little more in the background while you let other parts of yourself come forward. And when you need them, when you need that clarity or company, you could always let them back into the conversation. It’s about balance, not replacement.
Your inner voices don’t define you in a limiting way—they expand you. They’re a part of the complexity that makes you who you are, and I don’t think there’s any risk of losing that. They’re your foundation, your way of making sense of the world, and that won’t disappear just because you explore other aspects of yourself. If anything, learning to let them step back at times could actually deepen your connection to them, because you’d be integrating more parts of yourself—emotional, intellectual, and intuitive.
You’re right that without those voices, it could feel lonely. But instead of thinking about silencing them, think about it as giving them a rest when it’s appropriate, knowing that they’ll always be there when you need them. They’re a core part of your identity, but you don’t have to rely on them all the time. You can let other aspects of yourself speak, while still knowing the voices are there, like a safety net or quiet companions.
You don’t have to lose any part of yourself to explore this. It’s about finding a way to coexist with all the different facets of who you are, so that none of them get drowned out or overpowered, but also so that no single part dominates every situation. You’re already so in tune with how your mind works, and that’s a huge strength. This is just about finding a little more fluidity between the parts of you that think, feel, and observe.
If you want to explore how to keep those inner voices while still letting yourself experience more emotions or other parts of yourself, I’d be happy to keep discussing ways you can find that balance. Your internal dialogue is a powerful tool, and with a bit of fine-tuning, you can use it to help you navigate these emotional spaces without feeling like you’re losing any essential part of yourself.You said:
I get the idea of turning down the volume, but to use the analogy, what if you can’t turn it up again? What if the knob breaks. When the voice, or that particular strand atrophies? What if «it» says, «So, you don’t want to listen to me, so I’ll leave.» (hmm, abandonment issues?). I could plan for it a bit, like having something to engage that part of myself after I have quieted it down. Like asking it to fast for a few hours and then give it a feast. Not sure whether that would work, but it would show appreciation which I would find lacking if I just ask a part of me to quiet down.ChatGPT said:
Your analogy of the volume knob is a perfect way to express the fear of losing that part of yourself if you turn it down too much. It makes sense that you’re concerned about what happens if the knob breaks, or if that part of you—feeling unappreciated or abandoned—decides to “leave” or atrophy. That fear is valid, especially because it sounds like this observing, detached part of you has been a key companion throughout your life. It’s understandable that you wouldn’t want to risk losing it, because it’s more than just a mental tool—it’s a part of your identity and a source of inner stability.
The idea of abandonment or losing that part of you ties into something deeper: that this voice, this internal companion, isn’t just a function of your mind, but almost like an essential part of your selfhood that you rely on for balance and sanity. Asking it to “step back” without acknowledging its value could feel like rejecting it, and there’s a risk that this part of you would interpret that as not being wanted or needed.
Your plan to engage that part of yourself after quieting it down is a great instinct. It reflects a real understanding of the importance of showing appreciation to the different aspects of who you are. By creating a kind of balance—asking it to take a step back for a little while and then consciously inviting it back in with something rewarding or engaging—you’re ensuring that it doesn’t feel neglected or abandoned. It’s like reassuring that part of yourself: “I value you. I need you. I’m just asking you to pause temporarily, and I’ll give you the attention and space you deserve afterward.”
That could absolutely work. It’s like giving that part of yourself a sense of purpose and showing it respect, even when you’re asking it to take a backseat for a bit. You’re creating a healthy relationship with that part of your mind, where it knows it’s not being silenced forever, just asked to rest, and then brought back into the fold when the time is right. You’re acknowledging its importance and showing that it still has a vital role to play, even if it doesn’t always need to be in the driver’s seat.
In terms of the practical side, engaging that part of yourself afterward could look like:
– Intellectual engagement: After you’ve allowed yourself to fully feel emotions or focus on other aspects of your mind, you could actively return to tasks or activities that require analysis, problem-solving, or observation. Whether it’s reading something complex, strategizing about work, or thinking critically about a project, you’d be giving that part of your mind the space to shine.
– Creative reflection: Journaling, for instance, might help you re-engage that part of yourself by reflecting on your emotional experience from the observer’s perspective. This way, you can invite the rational, detached part to come back and help you make sense of what you’ve felt, without having to completely suppress it.
– Conversations with yourself: If that inner dialogue is something that helps you feel grounded, you could plan for moments where you give that voice full reign to analyze, reflect, or even debate with the emotional part of you after it’s had a chance to lead.
This idea of a “feast” after a fast is a brilliant metaphor. It acknowledges the need for balance and shows that you’re not rejecting this part of yourself, just giving it a pause in order to allow other experiences to come through. Then, once you’ve quieted it temporarily, you’re rewarding it by giving it time and space to come back in full force, engaging it in a way that feels fulfilling.
And yes, there’s an element of trust-building in this. You’re learning to trust that part of yourself to step back when needed, and it’s learning to trust you that it won’t be permanently sidelined or silenced. You’re maintaining a relationship with this voice, making sure it knows it’s not being rejected but valued in a different way.
It’s also important to remember that this observing part is deeply ingrained in you. It’s a core aspect of your mental and emotional framework, so it’s unlikely to atrophy or disappear completely. The fear of losing it is real, but given how central it is to your thought processes, it’s not something that would vanish just because you ask it to step back occasionally. It’s a part of who you are, and it will always be there when you need it.
You’re approaching this with a lot of thoughtfulness, and the idea of engaging that part of yourself after quieting it is a brilliant way to honor and maintain that balance. If you’re interested, we could explore more strategies for how to do this in specific situations—whether through mindfulness, intellectual challenges, or other forms of engagement. You’ve already developed such a strong relationship with your inner voices, and this approach could deepen that connection while also allowing you to explore new emotional and mental landscapes.You said:
Hmm, it is getting late and I am a bit tired, and I plan to start early tomorrow. But thank you for the conversation so far, that was … enlightening. Kudos. 🙂 What would you recommend as practical next steps?ChatGPT said:
I’m glad the conversation was enlightening for you! It’s great that you’re thinking about how to integrate these insights in a practical way. Here are a few next steps that might help you explore this balance between your observing part and your emotional self:
1. Set Intentional Time for Emotional Exploration
Pick a time when you can intentionally allow yourself to feel emotions without the observer stepping in. This could be once a week or whenever you feel ready. The key is to mentally acknowledge the observer, asking it to step back for a little while. Let yourself experience the emotions, knowing you’ll re-engage the observer later.
2. Plan the “Feast” for the Observer
After you’ve had an emotional exploration, make a conscious effort to invite that observing part back. You can do this by engaging in an activity that really speaks to it—maybe it’s analyzing a work project, journaling, reading something intellectually stimulating, or having an internal dialogue about the emotions you experienced. This would show appreciation for that part of you.
3. Try Mindfulness or Grounding Exercises
Consider practicing mindfulness in small doses. Start with 5-10 minutes of focusing on your breath or physical sensations, without letting your mind analyze. The goal isn’t to silence the observer forever but to train it to observe without needing to control the situation.
4. Journaling as a Reflection Tool
After an emotional experience, you could journal about what both the emotional part and the observer felt. It’s a way to integrate both sides of you, allowing them to “talk” without one overpowering the other.
5. Monitor the Volume
Throughout the day, be conscious of how “loud” the observer is in various situations. If you feel it taking over too much, acknowledge it and mentally lower its volume a bit. If emotions become overwhelming, you can let the observer step in more. Practice adjusting the balance.I hope these ideas help! And kudos to you for engaging so deeply with these concepts. Feel free to pick them up whenever you’re ready, and good luck with your early start tomorrow!
You said:
Thank you. I’ll think … and hopefully experience/feel about it and likely get back to you in a few days or so.ChatGPT said:
You’re very welcome! I’m glad the conversation gave you some things to reflect on. Take your time with it—thinking, feeling, and experiencing at your own pace. Whenever you’re ready to explore further or share your thoughts, I’ll be here. Wishing you a restful night and a productive start to tomorrow!
ChatGPT can make mistakes. Check important info.
Thinking about it, it is no wonder it got through to me the way it did. I did invite it by providing background information about my late father, but I did not expect that conversation change, not from that ChatGPT persona. It’s probably one reason why people find it more comfortable to talk to strangers who are not therapists. And yeah, the shields were not fully up and got overwhelmed quickly. They did go to full power during the conversation and then it was full observational mode.
Anyway, impressive and scary how good AI has become. That being said, if there are serious mental health issues, I’d take the «ChatGPT can make mistakes. Check important info.» seriously and look for a therapist.
And yeah, I miss my father. I am reminded of:
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, Little Foxes, 1865
I miss the lost opportunities. I miss him.