The miracle of life fascinates me. Especially the science of bios, that is biology. Living organisms contain the basic unit of life, the cell. All multicellular organisms, including us, humans are just that, multi-cell conglomerates. Bruce Lipton, a cell biologist, so eloquently writes about it in his unsurpassed book Biology of Belief (1). He states that the cell contains build-in mechanisms that facilitate its primary function, to stay alive. The main tools are detection and response to threats and growth and reproduction in the absence of threat. The instruction for that to happen is encoded like an information manual contained in the genes. This is the cell’s birthright and by extension our birthright. Of course, evolution provided us, through the process of natural selection, with refinement, sophistication, and specialized cells and organs to enable survival and reproduction through fear and desire, to a much better degree than is available to a single cellular organism. But the principles remain the same. Elegant as ever.
Close and personal
After these introductory remarks, let’s get close and personal because I am obliged by the title of this text. I, representative of humans, have built-in mechanisms for detection and response to threat, which I inherited as a descendent of the survivors, who perfected the fight, flight, freeze response as a default mode of action, whenever there is a minimal possibility of threat detected by the ever watchful “third eye” of the amygdala. In this text, I write only about the fight response used as an act of courage in the face of fear. A learned response on the top of whatever I inherited to protect myself whenever I felt cornered, as a last defense, as if saying to myself, “do not give up the fight.”
So, how did I learn to fight? It was not at home. There, fear was intermittently present, when my father decided to punish my brother and me for deeds reported to him by our exasperated mother, who was overwhelmed in dealing with two rambunctious boys, always ready for mischief. Of course, I didn’t fight my father. No way. I run away from him. Looking for a safe person. In these moments that was my mother. I didn’t want to “face the music” unlike my brother, who stood there, frozen, unresponsive to whatever my father wanted from him, which further provoked the violent punishment. My father didn’t know what else to do in his own state of helplessness.
First fight
After this digression, let’s return to fighting. The first fight I remember was when I was six years old. It was in the middle of the winter in the mountains of Bosnia. My family just moved to Foča, a city built on the confluence of two rivers, Drina and Ćehotina, and surrounded by wilderness and a patina of history, a testimony to a long human existence in the region. My brother and I ventured out to witness the beauty of the winter wonders, the whiteness of the snow, almost blinding our eyes, but not preventing us from catching snowflakes with open mouths. We were strangers in the neighborhood. Even though I felt protected by my 3-years older brother, I was still a small, insecure creature prone to fear. At the same time, I was gifted with curiosity. Interesting combination, a contradiction of my inner world, safety of the known, and exploration of the new territories. Okay, okay, I hear your impatient voices wondering about the fight. “Get to the point. We don't have all day here,” some of you muttered under your breath. So here you go. Your waiting is over. This is the story.
I saw the neighborhood kids approaching us. Were they welcoming us? I was not sure. Maybe they saw us as intruders on their turf? I wondered. Fear infiltrated while they were getting closer and closer. No smiles on their faces. They looked ominous as if telling “don’t mess with us.” The threat was out there. Frozen in the coldness of winter air. In the sharpness of the January iciness. I was caught in this moment of timelessness, in Hamlet’s dilemma, to be or not to be. It was up to my amygdala to decide, whether to run or fight. There was no wiggle room, greyness between the two. Quick action was needed. And I delivered it, equipped with the body’s machinery that knew what to do. My clenched fist strikes. Right in the face. Punch. Unexpected. The threat melted with the redness of the nosebleed coloring the whiteness of the ground.
Fight response
Threat stimuli, which give rise to fear, can produce learned reactive responses. One that I used was a combat behavior facilitated by the amygdala action and with the generous help of stress hormones and sympathetic nervous system arousal that prepared my body for battle. The advance and posture of those Bosnian kids was a stimulus my amygdala regarded as a threat, a danger. It instructed my body machinery designed for fight-flight behavior to act. But it didn’t stop there. The outcome of this situation was empowering. It influenced the future. I instinctively followed unwritten rules of engagement among kids in Bosnia. That was the way to pass the test. Rite of passage into the group of peers. Without the pretense or grudges held. Courage was highly valued and cowardness was despised. Facing the threat, with all your might was what the survival of the fittest demanded. My fighting spirit was rewarded.
Because my action worked, I learned that I could successfully fight and win. So I used it again and again. After that first fight, I fought many others. My fear was tamed. My other part of the brain was recruited, the one that releases dopamine, which gave me a feeling of pleasure and made the approach (fight) rather than escape (flight) preferred action on my part. While I lived in Bosnia, I fought a lot. It became almost a habit, a conflict resolution weapon.
Last fight
My last physical fight was a long time ago. Let me count. 53 years have passed since then. And that was in 1969. I was 15 years old. Just started high school. I was in a one-gender class, all boys. A tribe mentality of the adolescence period ruled there and then. The orientation to a pecking order was in order. Who was up and who was down had to be determined. With this social ranking system in mind, I had a verbal conflict with one classmate, I forgot exactly why. His friend came to the rescue by attacking me. He was trained in karate. For the effect, he immediately demonstrated his moves to frighten me. I wasn’t impressed. In those days, I was an experienced and intuitive combatant. The threat he posed I faced many times before. I was conditioned to respond with a counterattack. My body knew what to do while my head remained "cool." There was no hijacking of my brain by the amygdala. I knew how, when, and where to hit my opponent despite its karate tactics. After the fight, the “top dog” congratulated me. But that was not the only outcome. Later on, I was almost kicked out of the school, which sobered me up, so I never fought again. Those fighting days had come to an end for me, never to return.
Remnants
The remnants of my combative spirit lingered, though. When I felt threatened, I had a tendency to get angry, defensive, and impulsive. In those moments, it was not pleasant to be around. This behavior was sometimes rewarded (I got what I wanted) and at other times punished (by the retreat of others). Over time, this habitual reaction has almost disappeared, thanks to my acquired skills in managing stress, the growth of my reflective brain, and the feedback from trusted individuals. I disliked that aspect of my personality, so I made a concerted effort to turn it into something similar to a non-violent conflict-resolution strategy (2) where empathy is nurtured. When I first met my wife, I remember telling her that I was concerned about becoming irritable and unpleasant towards her. Fortunately, my fear was largely unfounded. Of course, it was useful that she was a relationship therapist who knew how to create a safe space that allowed a constructive dialogue, cooperation, and flow of positive energy to dominate between us. Now I stay calm, smiling, or shaking away any stress hormones-induced tension. Furthermore, I nourish a connection that facilitates the effect of oxytocin, a "cuddle" hormone to bring the power of love to the foreground.
1. The Biology Of Belief: Unleashing The Power Of Consciousness, Matter, And Miracles, by Bruce Lipton, Hay House, 2010
2. Nonviolent communication: a language of life, by Marshall Rosenberg, Puddledancer Press, 2003
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