A Self-Regulation Guide: How to Befriend Chronic Anxiety Instead of Fighting It
Neurotic behaviors aren't character flaws—they're your psyche's attempts at self-regulation and your compass around unconscious pain. Learn to decode what your patterns are really trying to tell you.
Let's start with a confession: I've never met a person who doesn't have at least one quirky way of managing their inner world. Maybe you're the type who reorganizes your closet when stressed, or perhaps you find yourself doom-scrolling at 2 AM when your mind won't quiet down. We all have our "things"—those repetitive patterns that seem to help us feel better, at least temporarily.
What if I told you that these patterns aren't character flaws or signs of weakness? What if they're actually your psyche's ingenious—if sometimes misguided—attempts at self-care, your inner compass pointing toward healing?
Reframing Neuroticism
When most people hear "neuroticism," they think of the Big Five personality trait: the tendency toward emotional instability and hypersensitivity to negative emotions that makes us sound like we need a good therapist and some strong chamomile tea. But we need to dig deeper than your standard personality quiz.
From a Jungian perspective, neuroticism isn't a fixed trait you're stuck with like your eye color or your inability to fold a fitted sheet properly. Instead, it's a collection of compulsive behaviors and thought patterns—addiction, perfectionism, rumination, that weird thing you do with your hair when you're anxious—that are actually attempts to regulate unconscious emotional pain.
Think of it this way: if your emotional world were a house, neurotic patterns would be like duct tape holding together a pipe that burst in the basement. The duct tape isn't the problem—it's doing its best to prevent a flood. The real issue is that burst pipe you can't quite see or reach.
Pain Goes Underground: Repression and Displacement
Here's where things get interesting. Many of our neurotic patterns develop when parts of our emotional experience go underground—when we can't consciously connect our distress to its real causes. This often happens because those causes were never made clear to us in the first place, usually during our formative years when we were still figuring out which end was up.
This psychological process is called repression, and it's not something we do consciously. Think of it as your mind's well-intentioned security system that automatically files away experiences that feel too overwhelming, dangerous, or incompatible with your survival needs at the time. French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan identified repression as the primary defense mechanism at the core of neurosis. It is the fundamental way our psyche protects us from unbearable experiences by making them unconscious. For example, a child who learns that expressing anger leads to rejection may not only stop showing anger, but also stop feeling it altogether. They push it so far down that they genuinely believe they are "not an angry person." However, the anger doesn't disappear. It gets rerouted into other channels, such as chronic anxiety, passive-aggressive behavior, or that mysterious tension that lives in their jaw. Repression isn't a moral flaw or a psychological anomaly. It's an normal adaptive strategy that helped you survive your early environment, even if it creates problems later in life.
Repressed emotions don't just stay buried. They often find substitute outlets through a process called displacement. This occurs when feelings that are too dangerous to express toward the intended target are redirected toward safer people, objects or situations. That road rage that seems disproportionate to the traffic situation? It might be displaced frustration from feeling powerless at work. A perfectionist who obsessively controls their living space may have displaced anxiety about uncontrollable relationships. A child who cannot safely express anger toward a critical parent may become aggressive with siblings or classmates instead.
Displacement can also cause phobias. For example, an intense fear of rodents may actually stem from a displaced terror of an unpredictable, absent father who fled from his responsibilities. A fear of heights may mask deeper anxieties about losing control or failing. The unconscious mind chooses symbols that feel emotionally similar to the original threat, yet are safer to avoid or fear. Displacement allows us to feel as if we are addressing our emotions without risking the vulnerability that would be required to address the original source. This is another example of the creativity of the psyche in finding outlets, even when they don't quite hit the mark.
A child may feel consistently overlooked in a busy household. Their needs for attention and validation are real and legitimate, but the family narrative might be "we don't make a fuss" or "you should be grateful for what you have." The child learns to interpret their very normal need for connection as being "too needy" or "selfish." Fast-forward twenty years, and that same person might find themselves compulsively seeking validation through work achievements, social media likes, or people-pleasing behaviors. The original need didn't go away—it just went underground, emerging in disguised forms that feel safer but never quite hit the mark.
The Nutrition Analogy
Here's an analogy that might help this click: Imagine someone experiencing hair loss who's never learned about nutrition. They might try expensive shampoos, hair transplants, or even blame genetics, when the real issue is a simple vitamin deficiency. The hair loss isn't the problem—it's the signal of an unmet need.
Similarly, emotional distress often gets misinterpreted or pathologized when we lack frameworks for understanding our unmet psychological needs. We end up treating symptoms instead of addressing the underlying problem.
The Childhood Origins of Coping Strategies
Most neurotic patterns have their roots in childhood environments where our emotional needs were unrecognized, misinterpreted, or—ouch—shamed. Maybe you learned that crying was "dramatic," that anger was "bad," or that needing comfort meant you were "weak."
In response, we develop what I call "emotional camouflage": ways of adapting that help us survive our early environments, but that may not serve us well in adulthood. We learn to mislabel emotional neglect as normal and internalize messages that we're either "too much" or "not enough"—sometimes both, depending on the day and your caffeine levels.
These patterns are particularly difficult to break because they are often associated with shame. It's not just that we learn certain emotions are unwelcome; we also learn that having those emotions makes us fundamentally flawed. The shame whispers, "Normal people don't struggle with this," "You should be over this by now," and "If people knew how you really felt, they'd leave." This shame acts as a guard dog, keeping our neurotic patterns locked in place and making us afraid to examine them too closely or ask for help.
These adaptations made perfect sense at the time. Your seven-year-old self was brilliant at figuring out how to get by. It's just that seven-year-old solutions don't always work so well for thirty-seven-year-old problems.
Your Body Keeps the Score
Here's something that might blow your mind: your nervous system is like that friend who remembers everything, even when you'd rather forget. It still registers subtle insults, projections, or lack of genuine intimacy as threats—even when your conscious mind has rationalized everything away with statements like "it's fine" or "that's just how they are."
This disconnect between what your body knows and what your mind acknowledges often leads to what I call "mystery anxiety"—that free-floating sense of unease that seems to come from nowhere. Your nervous system is trying to tell you something, but without the right translation software, you might end up reaching for familiar soothing behaviors: food, alcohol, shopping, Netflix binges, or refreshing your email for the fifteenth time in ten minutes.
Somatization, Dysphoria and “Acte Manqué”
Sometimes, when emotions have nowhere else to go, they manifest in your body through a process called somatization. That chronic back pain that flares up during stressful periods, the headaches that arrive like clockwork before family gatherings, and the digestive issues that seem to have no clear medical cause might be your body's way of expressing what your mind can't yet put into words.
Your nervous system can signal distress about your identity through dysphoria, which is a pervasive sense that something fundamental is wrong with how you look, how you live, or who you are. It's as if your conscious understanding of yourself is disconnected from what your nervous system knows to be true. Body dysphoria concerning weight is a compelling example. A person may experience persistent anxiety, shame, or disconnection from their body that goes far beyond rational health concerns. Their nervous system may be responding to early messages tying worthiness to appearance, or it may be signaling that their relationship with their body has become a battleground for deeper issues around control, self-acceptance, or unprocessed trauma. Obsessive thoughts about weight, avoiding mirrors, and constantly checking one's body aren't just vanity or "superficial" concerns. Often, it’s the psyche's way of expressing pain about feeling fundamentally unacceptable or unsafe in your own skin. It may also be experienced as chronic restlessness in an apparently perfect career or as a persistent sense of wearing a mask in relationships.
Another way your psyche can trick you is through what psychoanalysts call "acte manqués," or parapraxes. In short, an "acte manqué" is a "failed" action that, paradoxically, succeeds in expressing a hidden wish or conflict through the failure itself. "Accidents," such as tripping when anxious about a meeting or cutting yourself while chopping vegetables after a difficult conversation, are not uncommon. Here’s a typical example of an acte manqué: You’re packing for a vacation with your partner, but when it’s time to leave, you can’t find your passport. You're sure you put it in the drawer, but it's mysteriously disappeared. The trip gets delayed or canceled. Interpretation: This could be an unconscious way of avoiding the trip. Perhaps you feel trapped in the relationship, are anxious about intimacy, or are resentful about going somewhere you didn't want to go. Losing the passport is a way of enacting your wish not to go without consciously admitting it.
It's as if your body becomes a storyteller, narrating your emotional history through physical symptoms. This isn't "all in your head"—a phrase that should be banned from all medical settings—but rather, it's your nervous system finding alternative channels for communication when the usual routes are blocked.
The Fantasy Trap
Let's talk about one of the sneakiest forms of self-regulation: fantasy. Real intimacy and connection require vulnerability, potential conflict, and the messy give-and-take of actual human relationships. It's risky business—people might not like what they see when you show up authentically.
Instead, people with early emotional wounds often create rich fantasy lives where they feel truly seen and understood. This can manifest as obsessing over celebrities, creating elaborate scenarios about potential romantic partners, or losing oneself in fictional worlds where connection feels safer because it's entirely under one's control.
There's nothing wrong with fantasy per se—we all need some escape. But when it becomes our primary source of feeling "known," we might be avoiding the very thing we most deeply crave: genuine human connection.
The Plot Twist: Neurosis as Your Inner GPS
Here's where Jung gets beautifully subversive. He suggested that "we do not cure our neuroses; our neuroses cure us." What if your compulsive behaviors aren't problems to be eliminated but signals pointing you toward unmet needs and unresolved wounds that are ready to be integrated?
Your perfectionism may indicate a deep need for acceptance. Your people-pleasing tendencies could highlight your hunger for genuine appreciation. Rumination may be your psyche's way of processing experiences that never received proper attention.
Your neuroses aren't curses—they're your inner GPS system saying, "Hey, we missed a turn back there. Want to try a different route?"
A Healing Journey, From Reaction to Reflection
True healing begins with developing what I call "emotional curiosity"—learning to sit with feelings without immediately trying to fix, explain, or escape them. This means tolerating the ambiguity of not knowing exactly what you're feeling or why, and getting curious about what your emotions might be trying to communicate.
True healing starts with becoming comfortable with being uncomfortable.
It's like becoming a detective in your own life, but a kind detective who assumes good intentions rather than looking for someone to blame.
This process requires a skill that many of us never learned growing up: the ability to be present with difficult emotions without getting caught in a downward spiral of rumination, either drowning in the emotions or pushing them away. It's a skill that requires practice and patience, as well as often some good support, whether from friends, therapists, or understanding communities.
This is where psychodynamic therapy can be particularly transformative. Unlike approaches such as cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), which focus primarily on changing behaviors or thoughts, psychodynamic therapy helps you explore the unconscious patterns and early relationships that shaped your current ways of being. In the safe environment of the therapeutic relationship, you can give voice to the underlying feelings and needs that have driven your neurotic patterns. It's like having a skilled translator help you understand the messages your psyche has been sending through symptoms. The therapeutic relationship itself becomes a laboratory for practicing new ways of connecting. You learn to be seen and accepted, even when you're struggling. You discover that your needs matter. You experience what it feels like when someone holds space for your pain without trying to fix or dismiss it.
Healing Outcome: Coherent Self-Regulation
Over time, through reflection, support, and gradually revising our internal maps of how the world works, something transformative happens. We start to build a deeper, more accurate connection between our emotions, needs, and behaviors.
Instead of frantically reorganizing closets when we're overwhelmed, we might recognize the feeling earlier and ask for help. Instead of losing ourselves in fantasy when we're lonely, we might reach out to a friend or take steps toward more authentic connection.
This isn't about becoming perfect or eliminating all our quirky coping strategies (life would be so boring). It's about developing what Jung called "coherent self-regulation"—the ability to respond to our inner world with wisdom, compassion, and increasingly effective strategies for meeting our real needs.
And here's something important to remember: this kind of deep healing takes time. We're not talking about a quick fix or a 30-day transformation challenge. The patterns you've developed over decades don't unravel in a few weeks, and that's actually a good thing. Slow, sustainable change gives your nervous system time to adjust and integrate new ways of being. Think of it like physical therapy for your emotional world—you wouldn't expect to run a marathon immediately after knee surgery. Be patient with your process; your psyche is doing remarkable repair work, even when it doesn't feel that way.
Building Real Resilience vs. Emotional Bypassing
A word here about modern stoicism and resilience-building, which have gained popularity as self-regulation strategies.
While ancient stoic principles of acceptance and focusing on what we can control have genuine value—and developing grit and emotional resilience is indeed crucial for healing—there's a nuanced balance to strike.
True resilience comes from learning to feel emotions fully while also building the capacity to navigate them skillfully. The goal isn't to become unaffected by life's challenges but to develop what we might call "flexible strength"—the ability to bend without breaking, to feel deeply while maintaining your center.
The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it.—Flannery O’Connor
Sometimes the most courageous and ultimately resilient thing you can do is let yourself feel hurt, angry, or scared, rather than immediately jumping to "philosophical acceptance." The real art lies in building genuine grit through insight: understanding your patterns, honoring your emotional experience, and gradually expanding your capacity to hold complexity. This kind of resilience is earned through facing your inner world honestly, not by bypassing it.
Neuroses Are Not Your Enemies
As you go about your day, I invite you to consider your own patterns with a bit more compassion. That thing you do when you're stressed? That habit you've been trying to break? What if it's not a character flaw but a loyal friend who's been trying to help you survive?
The goal isn't to eliminate these patterns overnight. Rather, it's to understand their purpose and the role they've played in your identity narrative. It's also to appreciate their good intentions and gradually develop more effective and mature ways of meeting your underlying primary needs.
After all, we're all just trying to figure out how to be human in a world without a clear instruction manual. Maybe our neuroses are some of our wisest teachers.