I know I promised you substantive content about supplements, but the work on that topic turned out to be far more time-consuming than I initially expected. The deeper I go into the subject of supplementation's effects on the body and nervous system, the more I see how many dependencies need to be understood and rigorously addressed. I need a bit more time to prepare materials that align with current knowledge and are genuinely valuable.
However, because I don't like leaving this space without my reflections, today I want to tell you about something very personal yet deeply connected to how the human brain functions. About my anchor.
What is emotional anchoring?
Only after years did I understand that my "anchor" wasn't merely a metaphor created by a pain-exhausted psyche. A mechanism very similar to what I intuitively built over years of living with neuralgia is well known to psychology and the neurobiology of emotions. Specialists call it emotional state anchoring.
Psychology describes anchoring as the process of creating an association between a specific stimulus and a particular emotional state. Our brain constantly records connections between emotions and what happens around us. Sounds, scents, images, memories, gestures, or places can become linked to a specific psychological state and then automatically evoke it. That's why a single song can trigger a wave of emotion years later, a particular scent can restore a feeling of safety, and the memory of a certain moment can suddenly activate calm or tension in the body.
How my anchor formed
My anchor developed naturally, somewhere between the first years of living with neuralgia. It formed slowly and almost imperceptibly — like an additional survival mechanism developing from the need to protect the psyche from complete overload. The human body has an enormous capacity for adaptation. When it functions in a state of pain and constant alarm for a long time, the brain begins searching for elements that allow recovery of even minimal stability.
At first, there wasn't even a name. There were only feelings — brief flashes of memories and small moments stored in memory with a positive emotional charge. It wasn't about grand events, but rather fragments of emotions: a sense of safety, relief, and peace that despite the pain still remained somewhere inside me. The scent of favorite herbs or perfume, beloved songs, or the thought of warm sun enveloping my face.
Today I know that my anchor was built precisely from such experiences. Psychology describes similar mechanisms as building internal resources — emotional reference points to which a person can return during moments of overload. Importantly, this process very often occurs entirely unconsciously. The subconscious automatically records stimuli associated with safety, relief, or hope, because their presence increases the chance of psychological survival.
Hope as part of the anchor
My anchor wasn't composed solely of memories. It was also made of desires I never completely abandoned despite living with neuralgia. The thought that maybe someday something would change. The hope for a day when the damaged trigeminal nerve would calm even slightly and stop functioning in constant arousal.
From psychology's perspective, hope plays an enormous role in coping with chronic pain. A person endures suffering far worse when they completely lose a sense of influence and meaning. Even a small space left for the possibility of improvement helps the psyche maintain its adaptive capacity. This isn't about naively convincing yourself that everything will suddenly become easy. It's rather about preserving a minimal sense that life doesn't end exclusively in suffering.
The brain wasn't designed for happiness
Anders Hansen, the Swedish psychiatrist, repeatedly emphasizes that the human brain wasn't created to provide us with constant comfort and happiness, but for survival. That's precisely why it reacts as if we still functioned in an environment full of threats — quickly engaging alarm, tension, and vigilance.
In this framework, anxiety, psychological crisis, or emotional exhaustion don't indicate weakness — they are the body's natural response to chronic stress and suffering. Hansen also reminds us that mental health doesn't mean uninterrupted well-being or a life without difficult moments. True psychological resilience is expressed not in the absence of breakdown, but in the ability to gradually recover balance after experiencing crisis.
When the anchor weakens
The longer I live with chronic pain, the more I understand its enormous impact not only on the body but also on the psyche and nervous system. Pain is not merely a signal from the body. With years of suffering, it begins to affect emotions, memory, concentration, and the way one perceives the world. A body functioning for years in constant alarm gradually becomes exhausted. Psychology describes this as adaptive overload or depletion of psychological resources.
After many years, I've also noticed that even the strongest anchor can begin to weaken if it must bear the weight of an unending storm for too long. There are moments when I increasingly feel the exhaustion of fighting, and things that once helped me survive no longer provide the same strength.
Today, psychology increasingly states that psychological resilience is not about being indestructible. A person very rarely maintains psychological survival through spectacular breakthroughs or sudden solutions. Far more often, survival is determined by seemingly small experiences and emotions that allow the psyche to maintain contact with meaning, hope, and the awareness that life doesn't consist exclusively of suffering. These small elements can sustain inner balance during prolonged overload and ensure that despite exhaustion, a person still finds within themselves space to keep going.
My anchor is still there
Today I know my anchor is still there. Perhaps it no longer looks the same as before and bears the marks of all the storms it has weathered, but it still helps me maintain balance when everything around begins to shake. Thanks to it, even in the hardest moments, I don't disappear entirely beneath the weight of pain and overload.
Sometimes I think that without it, I'd be like the ship in the photo — abandoned on shore, slowly destroyed by water, wind, and passing time. With each successive storm, increasingly weakened, increasingly fragile. But it is precisely the anchor that ensures that despite all difficulties, I remain in contact with myself and don't allow pain to completely strip me of a sense of my own existence.
And though there are moments when the waves seem stronger than me, within me there remains the conviction that even after the longest storm, light eventually appears. Perhaps it sounds trite, but this very thought has helped me survive moments for years when everything else seemed to be falling apart.
Natalia — since 2014 I've been living with trigeminal nerve pain. I write in plain language, based on reliable sources and personal experience. Read my story →
Frequently Asked Questions
What is trigeminal neuralgia?
Trigeminal neuralgia is a chronic facial pain condition. It manifests as sudden, severe, usually one-sided pain attacks — often described as an electric shock. A single attack typically lasts from a few seconds to about two minutes.
Does alpha-lipoic acid (ALA) help with neuropathy?
Some people use ALA as a supportive supplement, but evidence is limited and comes mainly from studies on diabetic neuropathy. It is considered a supplement, not a proven therapy. Always consult your doctor.
Can chronic pain affect memory and concentration?
Yes. Research shows that chronic pain, including trigeminal neuralgia, can lead to measurable changes in brain function — affecting memory, attention, processing speed, and executive function. This is sometimes called 'brain fog' and has a real neurobiological basis.
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