Dissonance: When the Nervous System Plays Two Notes at Once

She has spent the entire day hoping he will call.

Not that she would admit that.

She has gone to work. Answered emails. Stopped for groceries. Made dinner. Done all of the things people do when they are absolutely, definitely not waiting for someone to call.

Her phone has been beside her the entire time.

Face down.

Because apparently that makes it less obvious.

At 8:47, it rings.

His name appears.

And her stomach drops.

For one second, she just looks at it.

This is what she wanted.

She wanted him to call.

She has imagined what she would say if he called. She has imagined what he might say. She has been angry that he hasn't called.

Now he's calling.

And she doesn't want to answer.

Her thumb moves toward the screen.

Stops.

Pick it up.

Something tightens in her chest.

Don't.

The phone keeps ringing.

Please don't hang up.

Please hang up.

There it is.

Two notes that should not belong together.

Except somehow they do.

The Notes We Try to Separate

We like our feelings to behave themselves.

If I love you, I should want you close.

If you hurt me, I should want you gone.

If I miss you, I should call.

If I'm afraid of you, I should leave.

If I wanted the apology, I should feel better when I receive it.

Clean.

Logical.

One note at a time.

Except human beings don't work that way.

Sometimes the person we miss is also the person we don't trust.

Sometimes we desperately want comfort and feel our entire body stiffen when someone tries to give it.

Sometimes we spend three days wanting someone to come home and then become furious the moment we hear their key in the door.

Sometimes we end a relationship because we know we cannot keep living inside it and then lie awake wanting nothing more than to go back.

And then we judge ourselves for the contradiction.

What is wrong with me?

Why don't I know what I want?

Maybe you do.

Maybe you want two things.

Come Here

Imagine a little girl standing in a hallway.

There's yelling somewhere in the house.

She knows that sound.

She doesn't understand everything being said, but she knows enough.

Her body knows enough.

She wants her mother.

That is almost automatic.

Something frightening happens and children look for the person who makes frightening things less frightening.

So she walks toward the bedroom.

Then she stops.

Because her mother is the one yelling.

Now what?

Her body has already organized toward something.

Go to her.

And something else arrives.

Don't.

She stands in the hallway.

Close enough to hear.

Far enough not to be seen.

Years later, she may not remember the hallway.

She may not remember what the argument was about.

But she may know something else extraordinarily well.

She may know what it feels like to desperately want someone and become frightened when they get too close.

Go Away

Fast forward thirty years.

Her partner reaches for her during an argument.

She pulls away.

"Don't touch me."

He backs up.

Now something else happens.

Her chest drops.

Why did he move away?

A minute ago she wanted space.

Now his distance feels unbearable.

"So you're just going to leave?"

He's confused.

Frankly, so is she.

She asked him not to touch her.

He listened.

And somehow his listening feels like rejection.

This is the moment when we tend to focus on the behavior.

She's sending mixed signals.

She's being unreasonable.

She's dysregulated.

Maybe.

But those descriptions aren't particularly interesting.

I want to know what happened before all of that.

What happened when he reached toward her?

Where did her attention go?

What happened around her eyes?

What changed in her neck?

Was there a defensive response?

And then what happened when he moved away?

Did another system suddenly organize around the loss of connection?

Because maybe this isn't one reaction changing its mind.

Maybe we're hearing two different sections of the orchestra.

Your Brain Is Not a Democracy

We sometimes talk about "the brain" as though it is one unified decision-maker.

My brain decided this.

My nervous system wants that.

But the nervous system is made up of enormously complex, interacting systems.

Attention.

Memory.

Movement.

Autonomic regulation.

Emotion.

Reward.

Pain.

Social connection.

Defensive responding.

These systems communicate with one another, but they don't always produce one tidy conclusion.

There is no tiny person sitting behind your forehead taking a vote.

And when something has both relational significance and threat significance, different response systems may organize around different needs.

Connection says:

Move closer.

Defense says:

Create distance.

Neither has to be fake.

The Percussion Remembers Something the Strings Don't

Earlier in this series, we met the periaqueductal gray, or PAG.

The PAG is a region of the midbrain involved in larger networks associated with defensive responding, pain modulation, autonomic function, and survival-related behavior.

It would be easy to turn that into one of those tidy internet graphics.

This part means fight.

This part means freeze.

This arrow causes trauma.

Brains are not that simple.

The PAG works within larger neural networks, and human defensive responding depends on context, learning, perceived options, bodily state, and many other systems.

But the important part for our orchestra is this:

The nervous system can begin organizing an action before you have consciously decided what you want to do.

Move.

Stop.

Brace.

Reach.

Pull away.

Become still.

Sometimes we can actually feel the beginning of those movements.

And sometimes two movements seem to compete.

The Hand That Doesn't Quite Reach

Think about the last time you almost touched someone.

Not when you touched them.

When you almost did.

Your hand moved.

Then stopped.

Maybe they were crying.

Maybe you were angry.

Maybe you didn't know whether touch would be welcome.

Maybe you desperately wanted connection and couldn't tolerate what reaching would mean.

From across the room, almost nothing happened.

But your nervous system knows the difference between a hand resting quietly and a hand that began to reach and stopped.

Muscles prepared.

Movement began.

Something inhibited it.

A note was prepared.

It simply wasn't played.

DBR can become interested in exactly those kinds of moments.

Not because every twitch contains a hidden trauma story.

But because subtle action tendencies can help us understand how the nervous system was organizing around an experience.

The Apology

There is another version of this.

You have waited years for someone to say:

"I'm sorry."

You imagined that hearing those words would change something.

Then one day they say them.

Exactly the words.

Maybe even sincerely.

And something inside you becomes furious.

This wasn't the plan.

You wanted relief.

Instead:

How dare you.

Then another voice:

I've wanted this forever.

Then:

It's too late.

Then:

Please keep talking.

Then:

I don't want to hear another word.

Dissonance.

We tend to think healing means eventually arriving at the correct response.

But what if there isn't one?

The apology can matter.

The injury can still matter.

Love can remain.

Trust can be gone.

Grief can coexist with relief.

Understanding can coexist with a boundary.

Two notes do not become false simply because they sound uncomfortable together.

What DBR Does With the Contradiction

DBR doesn't need us to solve the contradiction first.

We don't have to decide:

Do you really want closeness or distance?

Instead, we can get much smaller.

Much slower.

Bring up the moment.

Not the whole relationship.

Not twenty years.

The moment.

His name appears on the phone.

Her partner reaches toward her.

The apology begins.

The face changes.

Then notice.

Where does attention go?

What happens around the eyes?

What happens in the head or neck?

Is there shock?

Does the body prepare for something?

Toward?

Away?

Still?

What comes next?

And sometimes, when the sequence is slowed down enough, what seemed irrational begins to have structure.

Not necessarily logic.

Structure.

There is a difference.

The Things We Couldn't Do

Sometimes the most important response is the one that never happened.

The child who wanted to run but had nowhere to go.

The person who wanted to scream but couldn't make a sound.

The hand that wanted to push someone away.

The arms that wanted to reach for someone who wasn't safe to reach for.

The person who wanted to leave but depended on the relationship for survival.

Years later, we look back and ask:

Why didn't I?

Why didn't I leave?

Why didn't I say something?

Why did I go back?

Why did I stay?

Those are reasonable questions.

But hindsight is standing somewhere the nervous system wasn't standing then.

It knows the ending.

The person inside the moment didn't.

DBR allows us to become curious about what the system actually tried to organize at the time.

Sometimes there was movement.

Sometimes inhibition.

Sometimes shock.

Sometimes competing tendencies.

Sometimes all of them happened so quickly that the only thing remembered afterward was:

I did nothing.

But nothing visible is not necessarily the same thing as nothing happening.

Maybe Resolution Isn't What We Think

Music teaches us something useful here.

Dissonance creates tension because we expect resolution.

We want the chord to settle.

We want the notes to finally agree.

We often want the same thing from therapy.

I want to stop missing them.

I want to stop being angry.

I want to forgive.

I want to know whether I love them.

I want to know whether leaving was right.

I want one clean feeling.

Sometimes that happens.

Sometimes it doesn't.

Maybe integration isn't turning everything into one note.

Maybe it is being able to hear the entire chord without having to immediately make one part disappear.

You can love someone and leave.

You can understand someone and hold them accountable.

You can forgive someone and never speak to them again.

You can miss someone without returning.

You can want closeness and recognize that closeness with a particular person is not safe for you.

You can grieve something you chose to end.

That isn't failure to heal.

That's complexity.

The Phone Stops Ringing

Back to 8:47.

The phone rings for the last time.

Then stops.

She stares at the screen.

Missed call.

Relief.

Disappointment.

Both arrive.

Of course they do.

She picks up the phone.

For a second, her thumb hovers over his name.

Maybe she calls back.

Maybe she doesn't.

That part of the story matters.

Behavior matters.

Choices matter.

Boundaries matter.

But before the choice, there was something else.

A movement toward.

A movement away.

Two notes.

One nervous system.

And maybe the work isn't deciding which note was the real one.

Maybe the work begins when we become quiet enough to hear both.

Curious About Deep Brain Reorienting?

Sometimes our reactions don't make sense when we look only at what we thought, felt, or ultimately did. Beneath the visible response may be shock, defensive reactions, attachment needs, and competing impulses occurring almost simultaneously.

Deep Brain Reorienting is a trauma-focused therapy that pays careful attention to these early aspects of responding. Rather than forcing an experience into a single explanation, DBR allows us to slow down and become curious about how the nervous system organized around a particular moment.

At Upstate Integrative Mind Counseling, we offer DBR as one option for trauma-focused treatment. Depending on your history, needs, and treatment goals, DBR may be used independently or thoughtfully integrated with other approaches.

If you're curious about Deep Brain Reorienting, you can learn more about DBR on our website or contact us to explore whether it may be an appropriate part of your treatment.

Sometimes healing isn't about forcing the orchestra to play one note.

Sometimes it begins when we finally understand why both notes were there.