#that it VIOLENTLY throws you into an hours-long physiological response

[beskad]

ok, I've managed to cook food, so I've had a meal today plus I have leftovers for lunch tomorrow

still have to shower

still have to clean up the cat puke ☠️

[donnerpartyofone]

sometime last september i had a bad cold with an ear infection. a bunch of fluid built up in my ear and never went away. i saw a doctor who suggested it would just disappear on its own, but that it could take three or four months. i took some antibiotics then, which didn’t help. he didn’t seem to consider it a problem. after a couple of months i came back, same deal. he gave me some anti-inflammatory nasal spray and some ear drops, which didn’t help. then i found a new gp and described the problem to her. she stuck her ear thing in my ear, wagged it around, and then just turned around and never discussed it with me in any way.

incidentally, i was seeing that second doctor because i was convinced i was dying from lung cancer. my mother was suddenly diagnosed with stage four lung cancer when she was my age and given a couple of months to live. (she surprised everybody by living for three or four years, which in my estimation was a lot worse than if she had just died right away) i found a gp who specialized in lung disease and explained that i have consistently restricted breathing in one lung that does not fluctuate in any way, and has been going on for a long time. well, my chest x-rays came back clear and i don’t have any other symptoms, so she just put me on some asthma inhalers. i had bad asthma as a kid, and this unceasing one-sided shortness of breath doesn’t resemble that in any way, but my doctor didn’t seem to give a shit about figuring out what was wrong with me as long as the inhalers seemed to be managing the symptoms. i felt like a theme was emerging when i told her about my ear, and she seemed to just look for whatever specific thing she would consider a problem, and when she didn’t see it, she just changed the subject.

so, naturally, i found a new gp. i went because my scripts for my inhalers were running out, and i didn’t want go back to the other doctor to get them renewed. mercifully (i guess although i’m really not dying to keep seeing more and more doctors), my new doctor is sending me for fresh x-rays and referring me to a pulmonologist. i also told her about my ear, and she checked me out and saw all this fluid behind my eardrum. she said this is very common, and might be there “forever”. it could be because of my naturally humongous tonsils, which is a pretty disgusting thing to hear about myself for some reason, or it could be allergy inflammation that’s contributing to the blockage. so the main thing i have to do is stop trying to pop my ear, which i want to do every second of every minute that i’m conscious, because it’s clearly, painfully wearing down my jaw. also, now i get to add an allergy pill to the 23 (24 depending on what’s going on) pills i need to take every day to manage other stuff. 

the “other stuff” is mostly one condition, which is that my system processes copper so poorly that the buildup of this psychoactive metal in my system makes me chronically depressed, anxious, fearful and angry. nutrient therapy is a lot better than being hooked on opiodes...i think? but the number of things i have to take to avoid that is exhausting, and means that i spend an hour or two a day feeling like i’m going to throw up while i digest everything, which isn’t exactly a mood booster.

anyway, my new gp has also referred me to an ENT, which appointment can’t happen soon enough because sometime around 3am yesterday, i developed a loud ringing in the affected ear that will not go away, and by all accounts, might never go away. this is not the first time this week that i was told one of my senses will be permanently impaired for no particularly good reason. a few years ago, i had to have surgery and localized chemotherapy to remove some pathological scar tissue growing across my corneas. it hasn’t come back (although it might), probably thanks in part to the chemo, but now i have a buildup of surgical scar tissue on one eye that is causing glare and spots, and according to my cornea specialist, that’s just the new normal. the few treatments options are considered high risk for little reward, i guess.

depression has a way of casting you as a problematic person in the public eye: someone who is oversensitive, looking for attention, being negative, and refusing to deal with their problems in a mature way (because according to people who don’t really have problems, all problems go away if you just adjust your bad attitude). now, i hate going to the doctor because my experience of autism makes me cry and panic like i’ve been raped if anyone touches me without my specific emotional invitation. also, it’s very hard for me to think of any experience i’ve ever had with a doctor where something was explained to me satisfyingly, or where i got treatment that really worked--as opposed to me just coming out the other end, terrorized and humiliated, sitting there in a puddle of my own various fear fluids thinking, “wait a minute, WHY THE FUCK did i let them do all that random shit to me??” to wit: a couple of years where i submitted myself to a doctor to have core samples regularly, painfully, frighteningly drilled out of my cervix because of some abnormal test results. whatever’s going on COULD be precancerous, i was told. well, what else “could” it be, i asked? they just shrugged, and one day they told me they weren’t seeing the abnormality anymore and they didn’t have to keep mutilating me. so...i could have just been sitting on the couch this whole time? why did i do this, when i don’t even have any particular faith in treatment anyway? but, i keep doing to the doctor(s), because i’ve had it drilled into my head that it’s the “responsible” thing to do, and it will prove to the world that i’m a “positive” person who tries to find “mature” solutions to my problems. that makes it extra frustrating when nothing comes of it, other than the damning confirmation that nothing about me is really working that well, and it’s not going to.

of course, on top of the fact that my problems are not really manageable in any substantial way, there’s the added psychological pressure that comes from people not seeing your problems as problems. exactly one half of my face is affected by rosacea, making it extra obvious that something is wrong with me. having tried everything else that is supposed to manage my symptoms--including two different treatments that are “magic bullets” for 99% of sufferers, both of which made me react so badly that i looked like i’d been attacked by wasps--i decided to take the plunge on my last option, an extremely expensive battery of painful and kind of scary laser treatments. i had the last one this month. i’m not seeing any difference at all, and in fact i’m not sure it didn’t make things worse. no insurance really covers treatment for rosacea because it’s considered a cosmetic problem, even though it results in broken blood vessels and progressive thickening of the skin that anybody would consider a medical problem if they saw it in action. i can already see what’s going on in the mirror, and trying not to notice is not an option.

i realize, as i’m sure many people will be quick to tell me, that i’m actually very lucky. i do not have any “real problems”. i’m performing the basic life problems of a human being just fine. but i have to say, just to stick up for myself, that there is something really special about just having a collection of unrelated problems that just amount to, like, a bunch of bullshit. i have friends who have had, or currently have, really major life challenges--horrifying circumstances or conditions with which they have had to wage a heroic battle. of course i don’t envy them, but at the risk of sounding really incredibly petty, at least they made some kind of sense. the dragon arrives at your door, and it’s cancer, or hiv, or a neurological disorder, or a flesh-and-bone-eating disease; you don your armor and fight the good fight, or prepare to die with dignity, or in the worst case scenario, you just regular-die, but everybody totally understands it as a tragedy. there’s some kind of logic to it all, even if it’s completely unfair and arbitrary in the outing. it’s different when you just have a bunch of bullshit, none of which anybody thinks is a problem individually, and there’s no reason for it. your eye is just kind of shitty and your skin is just kind of shitty and your lung is just kind of shitty and your ear is just kind of shitty and your ovaries are just kind of shitty and your mental health is just kind of shitty (for chronic physiological reasons). so therefore, looking at things is just kind of shitty and having people look at you is just kind of shitty and hearing things is just kind of shitty and really, just being awake and alive is just kind of shitty. and there’s no narrative here, it’s not you versus your virus or you versus your mutating cells or something. it’s just you versus the fact that you’re just, like, kind of a fucking lemon. if your body were a car, you’d get rid of it, and just take the bus from now on. or stop going anywhere altogether.

when i’m not fighting off a violent reaction to my mounting collection of bullshit problems, i’m usually trying to find some meaning to my life. it’s hard to do. i’m not brilliantly intelligent or talented in any way that would make my career into the point of my life. i’m also not going to start a family (which would be a huge challenge for me anyway because of problems with my reproductive system), so that’s out. because of my anhedonia, i can’t really live for pleasure either--a fact which is surely compacted by the way that all of my individual parts seem committed to making any and all sensory input at least sort-of annoying, if not infuriating and claustrophobia-inducing. when it’s just me and my depression, i often think, ���god, i really wish i could just achieve something in this life, then all this agonizing would be worth it.” i usually wind up reaffirming that i’m just an ordinary person, i’m not even very good at my hobbies or very knowledgable about my passions, there’s no chance that doing something special with my time on earth is going to save me. but then, of course, there’s my shitty, shitty, shitty physical condition. the only thing i really ever accomplish is preventing myself from screaming.

i realize that many people might want to frame stopping yourself from screaming as an accomplishment in and of itself. when you’re really challenged in life, you have to remember your context. like, one guy might be climbing the corporate ladder, and he has to face the challenge of competition and seizing opportunities and stuff; but when you’re, say, me, not-screaming can be a legitimately equivalent effort that you should be proud of winning at. both my best shrink and my worst shrink have tried to warn me off of comparing myself to others--to noticing, constantly, that compared to pretty much everyone i know i’m really defective, and in fact i’m way behind my peers developmentally because i have to struggle so hard just to get through my fucking day without ruining anything or taking a break for pure suffering. part of the reason to avoid comparing yourself to others is what i was just getting at, that you want to have an authentic sense of your own suffering without using an irrelevant-to-you method of measurement. the other part of it is that you don’t want to delude yourself into thinking that you are the only person who suffers, or that your suffering is the most extreme. my first/worst shrink approached this in a pretty hilarious way: she suggested that maybe ALL of my friends have ALL the same problems as me, they just haven’t mentioned it. first of all, this just shows a real ignorance of how many great complainers i know. but secondly, it suggests a world in which my closest friends have stood by while scars grow over my eyeballs and half my face burns and swells and my ovaries constantly invite painful degrading examinations and threaten cancer and my lung never opens all the way and my ear rings deafeningly et at ad nauseam, and they just...don’t say anything to me. for some reason my dearest companions just don’t feel like offering me support or solidarity or advice from their supposed rich experience, or even venting their own frustrations to an ear they know for a fact is sympathetic, even if it doesn’t hear too well. it’s an extra bizarre idea that still makes me laugh, when i’m not screaming.

now i have to get ready for today’s doctor’s appointment, the fifth of what i think will turn out to be eight this month, not including psychiatric appointments. it’s not for my ear, but i’ll definitely be bringing that up again, because i think i need to add an anti-anxiety prescription to my armory of pills, because i don’t think i’m going to make it through this experience without altering my chemistry until i just don’t give a fuck about anything that happens to me. plus i need to find out if tinnitus is its own thing, or if it is definitely always a symptom of hearing loss (that is, a deteriorating ability to perceive sound, as opposed to an incredibly loud internal sound that you just naturally notice more than other external sounds that you are still technically capable of perceiving). a minute ago, my husband got up and started stalking around our tiny apartment suspiciously. i thought he must have seen a bug, but he’s looking for the source of a weird noise that must be coming from our large mac tower, a couple of feet away. i absolutely cannot hear it at all.

[samingtonwilson]

Approximately This Big (Bones x Reader)

Title: Approximately This Big (which refers to something reader says whilst motioning. it’ll make sense if you read it)

Prompt: does watching what to expect when you’re expecting count as a prompt?

Word count: 2,688 (good god)

Warnings: language, pregnancy, vomiting

A/N: I was watching what to expect when you’re expecting (as i just said) and for some reason felt like writing something. Bones came to mind before anyone else could and i feel like it’d be interesting to be married to him, so here’s something that i wrote in the middle of the night that likely sucks! (tell me what you think, though) ENJOY IT (or try to, at least)

With each passing second, the room seemed to be growing colder. Despite the thickness of the blankets draped over and tucked under you, you had to use all of your strength to prevent violent shivers from rattling your bed and body. You didn’t have any sort of desire to wake the sleeping man beside you— being the Chief Medical Officer, he needed plenty of sleep to handle any sort of illness and injury that came through the medbay doors. And you needed him to sleep so you didn’t have to handle any bit of moody-broody-Leonard.

It wasn’t that moody-broody-Leonard was more of a pain for you than his exhaustion was for himself. But if you had to watch him take his aggression out on another mediocre, replicator-produced meal, he would find himself back in the medbay— except it would be to sleep on a biobed.

For the coming three hours, the chill that seeped through the blanket and bit at your skin didn’t cease no matter how much fatigue weighed against your eyelids and no matter what actions you took. You pulled the bulky blanket around yourself tighter, you blew your warm breath onto your hands, you cuddled into your husband’s chest further, you prayed to the gods of space and took the name of the USS Enterprise’s lord and savior, Jim Kirk. Nothing helped— least of all Leonard pulling on the blanket so he hoarded more than half of it. It was actually increasing— the cold and the subsequent physiological reactions, that is.

You felt your stomach flip uncomfortably and your ice-like fingertips pressed against your pursed lips. The feeling of bile rising in your throat and air constricting in your lungs had your eyes opening wide enough for all fatigue to be lifted and a heavy dose of nervousness to practically tape your eyelids to your eyebrows. You squeezed your eyes shut with great force and increased the pressure of your fingertips, taking a long and slow breath through your nose.

When another chill that traveled up your spine had your shoulders quaking and your stomach hitting your pelvic bones, you decided you’d had enough. You tore the should-have-been warm fabric from yourself and climbed out of bed. Had your knowledge and affinity for the medical field been greater, you would’ve taken note of the weakness in your legs and the spinning of your light head.

It felt as if every sense in your body had been heightened— an unwelcome phenomenon that would have been welcome under circumstances such as wine tasting and chocolate eating. You wanted to drag your feet against the floor but the urgency of the upcoming bodily tragedy forced your legs to move faster in spite of the burning of your muscles.

Finally in the bathroom, you threw the toilet seat up and emptied the contents of the stomach you were unaware could hold so much. You combed your fingers through your hair and squeezed your eyes shut again as another wave of nausea weakened your reddening knees and aching sides.

Though the door shielding the rest of the quarters from the bathroom was quite thick and didn’t often allow noise leaks, you tried to make as little sounds as possible— moody-broody-Leonard haunted your thoughts even in such a condition.

Your efforts went to waste, however, as a series of knocks emitted from the metallic door. You groaned to yourself and cleared your throat before speaking, “Yes?”

“Is everything okay?” His voice was beautifully heavy, deeper than usual and created a higher amount of comforting vibrations— even after so many years of hearing it, your heartbeat still picked up pace at the augmenting of his Southern drawl. In this situation, though, it calmed your heart from a hummingbird pace to a post-cardio-workout pace.

You dragged the back of your hand over your lips and pushed off the ground, sighing at the soft sting in your knees. Once you were standing, you cleared your throat again as you flushed the toilet. “Yes, it’s all fine.”

“Didn’t sound fine.”

“I know ‘what’s mine is yours’ and ‘in marriage you share everything,’” you began, placing your hands under the gushing water of the tap and waiting for it to warm, “but I’d really like it if we drew the line at listening to what happens in here.”

You heard him snort. “Speaking as your husband, I’m on board. But speaking as your physician, there are no lines when it comes to your health.”

You smeared toothpaste onto your brush once you’d rinsed your mouth and were unsatisfied with the ever-present stink of vomit, leaning your hip against the counter and holding your brush inches from your lips. “You sound sexy when you’re sleepy. Speak more.”

Before he could speak and before you could actually scrub your teeth, you paused. “Not about medical things. Or what you heard.”

He let a few beats of silence pass. “You’re a damn blanket hog.”

You smiled as you did your best to rid your mouth of the disgusting, acrid taste of upchuck. You only hummed an offended sound in response.

“We’re equal in this relationship, so I expect the blanket to be divided evenly, too.”

You spit the foam from your mouth and rinsed quickly, finally feeling clean. You smiled to yourself. “What happened to ‘marriage is based on compromise’? ‘Give a little, take a little.’”

“So give a little, sweetheart.”

You glanced at your reflection and had to stop yourself from grumbling. Your eyes were bloodshot and watery, the lines under them dark and deep, and your lips appeared and felt swollen.

Your stomach flipped once more but you swallowed thickly and nodded to yourself, allowing the door to open. Immediately, you slapped your hand over your eyes and hissed. “Why are all of the lights on?”

Leonard placed his hand on top of yours, his skin comforting and much warmer. He called for the lights to dim a bit and pulled your hand from your eyes. “It’s safe. Open your eyes.”

You opened them one at a time, pulling a soft laugh from him. “Why are you up?”

“Question after question. My shift starts in a little over an hour,” he said, stifling a yawn and shaking his head as he glanced at the time. “As does yours.”

You shut your eyes again and your body slumped into his chest, his arms going around you instantly. “I barely slept.”

“Yeah, you look it.”

You pushed at his abdomen and clicked your tongue. “Husband of the year.”

His chest against your back, arms around your waist, and chin set on your shoulder, he sighed out. “I’m sorry. Forgive me?”

Your eyes shut again and your posture relaxed a little as he pressed his lips to your shoulder blade and let one of his hands duck under the hem of your loose shirt. His fingers splayed out against your skin and you shook my head. “It's not that easy.”

His hand then held your hip, turning your body to face him. His pupils were blown to their furthest extent and his lip parted as he breathed evenly. He watched every movement of your eyes and leaned forward just to stop a centimeter or two from your lips. “You brushed after throwing up, right?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes.”

“Just checking, darlin’.”

When he finally kissed you— deeply, so you could feel it even in your toes— his arm encircled your waist to eliminate the distance between your bodies. There was no impatience in his lips as he moved slowly and with great intent to steal as much of your time and breath as possible.

As his lips pressed against your neck after you’d pulled away to breathe, he spoke so the vibrations of his voice coursed through your body. “If you want, we could get into the shower… I could make it up to you. Over and over.”

Under normal conditions, you wouldn’t have waited to say yes. But the subtle shaking of your limbs and uneasiness of your stomach forced you to say no with a shake of your head and a sorry excuse for an excuse.

Throughout the workday the churning of your stomach subsided while the tiredness of your limbs remained— that is, until you smelled anything and everything that was being eaten in the mess during lunch. You were forced to excuse yourself and eventually took refuge in the deserted botany laboratory. In your mind, you continued to reiterate the normalcy of your symptoms and repeatedly attributed it to something you must have eaten.

It wasn’t until a cramp pulled your posture askew that you took the advice of a concerned ensign and rode the turbolift to the medbay. You did your best to avoid the exam rooms as you knew Leonard had several quarter-yearly physicals scheduled and calmly asked a nurse for Dr. Sirleaf— the only physician you trusted not to give into Leonard’s potential interrogations following the spur-of-the-moment appointment.

You sat on the biobed swinging your legs and toyed with the hem of your blue Starfleet issued uniform. You watched Sirleaf tap at the screen of her PADD and carry on making the faces she began making the moment her tricorder whirred over your torso. She had only asked you for a list of your symptoms since then.

“With all due respect, Doctor, you’re freaking me out.”

She smiled down at her screen, then looked back at you with a compassionate expression. “You’re healthy, there’s no need to worry about that.”

“So then what’s wrong?”

She pulled the stool from beside the sink to place it before the bed, sitting down as she set her PADD aside. She took a breath and covered your hands with hers. “I’ll just get right to it. You are pregnant— few weeks along which is why you’re cramping, excessively tired, and restless.”

You blinked.

You couldn’t find a reaction aside from widening your eyes and staring at the doctor in front of you. If you’d thought the flipping of your stomach was uncomfortable before, you were on a completely different level of distress now.

She read the panic on your features. “You do have options and, since you’re healthy, there’s minimal risk if you choose to termin—”

“No, no,” you managed to say in a volume soft enough to barely be heard. You chewed on your bottom lip for a few seconds. “That’s not— I have to talk to—” you stopped talking and shook your head. “Leo, I have to talk to Leo.”

She nodded and clasped her hands around yours tighter. She smiled so her dark skin creased with deep laugh lines. “Of course. As long as you know that at the end of the day, the decision is yours.”

“Yeah, I know. I just— I don’t know,”  you cleared your throat. “It’s not about our marr—” you sighed for what felt like the seventeenth time in ten seconds. “He’s— He’s my best friend, I have to tell my best friend. I mean, who else do you tell?”

Once she had completed rattling off a set of instructions and recommendations for appointment frequency and obstetrician options, she asked if you had any questions and you shook your head. She wasn’t the one you wanted answering your questions.

You didn’t have to ask her twice to call Leonard and, in waiting, you tore at the skin of your bottom lip until you tasted copper against your tongue. You then resorted to biting your fingernails, counting the seconds until Leonard appeared on the other side of the door— seconds of which there weren’t many.

He was frowning when he saw you, his lips turned down and agape in a deep scowl. The sight you must have been with tears streaming down your cheeks and your fingertips pressed to your lips.

He took quick steps towards you and placed his hands on your upper arms. He was searching your widened eyes. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You couldn’t find words aside from a stammered, “I-I’m.”

The worry in his eyes, in his grimace, in his grip on your arms was evident. You thought he must have been mirroring your fear, your anxiousness perfectly. “Darlin’, you’re killing me here. Please talk to me.”

You cleared your throat and gathered whatever residual courage sat in the back of your mind. You wet your raw lips and tried not to lose your train of thought as he leant his forehead against yours. “Leo, could you—” you clicked your tongue. “For a minute, could you just be my best friend? Not my husband, not my doctor— just my best friend.”

He lifted his head and nodded quickly. “Yes, yeah. Anything you need.”

“It’s nothing bad— not in my eyes, I don’t think.”

A relieved breath left his lips. His hazel eyes were still worried. “Okay.”

The floodgates opened. “But it’s not just about me. And it’s still early— in the marriage, in this five year mission. It’s still so early. But there’s never a perfect time for anything— there’s no such thing as perfect timing. Space’s emptiness just feels so far from being a perfect place for this. Fuck, I feel like… Like I want to scream, and cry, and yell but I’m also—”

You finally looked at Leonard and felt yourself smile a little as you traced his features— the slope of his nose, the width of his eyes, the shape of his lips. You used the heel of your hand to wipe your cheeks. “I think I’m happy— a little.”

He laughed a bit shakily. “You know, you're really throwin’ me for a loop.”

“I have no reason to be afraid, right?” you pinched the fabric of his shirt that matched yours in color. “Of your reaction, I mean. No reason to be nervous?”

His palm sat against your cheek so his thumb could glide over your cheekbone. “Why would you ever need to be afraid of how I’d react to something?”

“Because it’s— Because it’s big.”

“How big?”

You held your hands up about a foot from one another. You shook your head and widened the gap so the space between your hands was near your full wingspan. “Approximately this big.”

He snorted and shoved your shoulder. “(Y/N), seriously. What’s going on?”

You took a deep breath— in through the nose, out through the mouth. “I am pregnant.” A few seconds later, when Leonard only stared at you, you inhaled deeply again. “With a baby. It’s yours— which I hope is obvious.”

“Pregnant?”

You nodded. “I wasn’t... sure about it when Sirleaf told me. Well, I wasn’t sure about it until, maybe, two minutes ago. But I think it could be a good thing. I mean, you know what all of this is about from experience with Joanna and having a spouse that’s a doctor can only help.”

You looked over his features that stayed frozen. You felt your smile fade. “But if you don’t— If you don’t want it, we can—”

“I say this with as much love as possible— are you out of your damn mind?”

“I hope not.”

“You were afraid to tell me you’re pregnant.” He shook his head once and looked away from you. “I don’t— It is early, in the marriage and in the mission. But none of that matters. We’re having a baby, why should anything else matter?”

“Yeah?”

He nodded and pressed his lips to your forehead prior to meeting your eyes again. “I love you— God, I love you so much. You should never be afraid to tell me anything. ‘Share everything,’ remember?”

You smiled at him, biting down on your bottom lip and reaching up to brush his dark hair back and out of his forehead.

When he hugged you tightly to his body, you spoke against his chest, “This doesn’t change the line I’ve drawn in regards to the happenings of the bathroom.”

You could picture him roll his eyes. “Oh, darlin’, this definitely changes it.”

“I’m the mother of your child, McCoy. You should pay heed to my needs.”

“You drive a hard bargain, other McCoy— but no.”

[cynthiamwashington]

Dear Mark: Women and Violence, Reducing Extra Wine, High Intensity Interval Resting, Phosphatidylserine and Mental Stress, Rethinking Stress

For today’s edition of Dear Mark, I’m answering five questions from readers. First up, do my recommendations regarding violence and martial arts in last week’s “wildness post” also apply to women? Second, what else can you do with leftover wine? Next, how do I approach my rest and work cycles? Fourth, is phosphatidylserine good for mental stress or just physical stress? And last, does changing how we interpret or react to stress change its effects?

Let’s go:

This post seemed mostly centered on men given they need more outlets for their violent/wild side. Do you think this pertains to women as well?

The post was definitely geared toward everyone—men and women, boys and girls, grandpas and grandmas. Everyone can benefit from climbing trees, creating a little more and consuming a little less, eliminating disorder in their home environment, and finding a tribe. I’d also argue that everyone can benefit from trying a martial art.

However, in general, men appear to have a higher appetite or “need” for violence.

It’s definitely true that most violent criminals are men, most homicides are committed by men (and most victims are men, too), and the average man has a higher predilection for violence than the average woman. There’s no getting around the hundreds of thousands of years of evolutionary pressure selecting for violence and aggression. It’s why in general men carry more muscle mass and physical strength than women—so they can throw harder punches and heavier spears.

But evolution didn’t select for murderous aggression. It selected for controlled aggression. For potential aggression. The ideal hunter or warrior is one who can mete out damage to others when required but avoids conflict when not. Someone who can protect their family and play with the baby.

Women may be less likely to have that predilection. Sure, the average woman is less interested in learning how to fight than the average man, but there are millions of outliers (in both sexes). Millions of women are interested in martial arts, and they should pursue that interest. I���d even argue that women who don’t think they’re into martial arts should give it a shot. They might be pleasantly surprised. Keep in mind, too, that it’s a physical art as well as a defense method.

The same goes for men, of course. If martial arts doesn’t interest you, it doesn’t interest you. But give it a shot before giving up.

Freezing wine. That is an amazing suggestion!

Another cool thing to do with leftover (or newly-opened—your choice) wine is to reduce it down to a few ounces and then freeze or store for later use. All the alcohol boils off and you can inundate a dish with intense wine flavors without needing to reduce the liquid so much.

Erin asked:

Should we concentrate on shoe-horning in anti-stress time every day, or can we get similar benefits from taking a “real” day off?

To me, there’s something to be said for treating your on and off days like you do your training.

On some projects, I dip in and out of work mode. I’ll work a few hours a day, get a hike in, maybe some paddling, and hop back on for a few more hours. This is how I do most blog posts and shorter-form writing.

Other projects require intense dedication, protracted focus. Deep work with long, infrequent breaks. I go hard and long. I’ll work for several days straight, then take a full day off—and I mean “off.” This is how I handle book and product launches.

It really depends on my intuition. I listen to my body. If I feel guilty about resting, I probably didn’t work hard enough. If I can flop down on the couch and watch Netflix without feeling an ounce of guilt, I probably need the time off. This assumes you’re in tune with your body and mind. I am—finally, after all these years!

Greg Harrington asked:

Does Phosphatidylserine help with mental-related stress? (i.e. stress about work, finances, relationships, etc.)

Yes. Several studies in humans show that PS helps in this area.

A 2004 study found that low-moderate dose PS reduced the cortisol and adrenal response to induced stress. Higher doses did not have this affect, nor did the placebo.

Among men exposed to mental stress, those taking a PS supplement had higher cognitive function and a lower psychological stress response.

Among men with chronic stress, PS supplementation normalized their stress response.

The stuff is legit.

I’d like to know more about how the effects of stress are modified by how we think about or perceive stress.

Great insight. Our perception of stress is almost everything.

Try this:

Instead of worrying about your sweaty palms, pounding heart, anxiety, and nervous flutter in the stomach…

Embrace the fact that your body is increasing heart rate to boost blood flow and deliver more nutrients to your organs and tissues in preparation for the event. It’s prepping you physiologically and psychologically. It’s pumping you up. That flutter in the stomach? It’s so you don’t eat anything and divert energy toward digestion and away from focusing on your performance. That tunnel vision? It’s honing your attention to the matter at hand. Rapid breathing? That’s more oxygen for your brain. Your anxiety? You’re just being careful, paying attention to details, leaving nothing to chance.

I’m not making this up, either. There are empirical studies that show rethinking stress can change how it affects you psychologically and physiologically.

We sweat to alert others (via smell) to the stressful situation. Strength in numbers.

If you can rethink your approach to stress, you will benefit. People who think of the stress response as beneficial do not experience increased mortality due to stress.

When people learn to think of the stress response as psychological and physiological “preparedness,” many of the negative effects normally associated with stress vanish or are modified to be helpful. Their pulse rate quickens (normal), but their blood vessels expand rather than constrict. They have increased attentional bias (normal), but instead of focusing on the stress, they focus on the task at hand.

It’s not a simple matter to truly believe that the stress response is beneficial. You can’t snap your fingers and switch to a new mode of interpretation. But know that it’s not BS. That it increases preparedness for difficult tasks is the evolutionary reason why the stress response that arose arose. The stress response is adaptive. Know that, keep reminding yourself of that, and one day it’ll stick. Good luck.

Thanks for reading, everyone. Take care, leave your comments and input  and questions down below, and have a great week!

The post Dear Mark: Women and Violence, Reducing Extra Wine, High Intensity Interval Resting, Phosphatidylserine and Mental Stress, Rethinking Stress appeared first on Mark's Daily Apple.

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