Control

Control, in my everyday life, is not an abstract concept but a physically perceptible state. When I am outside, in social situations, I notice how quickly my system tips into a kind of alert mode: sounds, movements, voices, glances — everything demands to be processed at once. If I do nothing, the feeling arises of being internally flooded and of losing control. But it is precisely at this point that something decisive begins: not withdrawal from the world, but the conscious shaping of the conditions under which I can be present in it at all.

Part of this shaping is an honest assessment of what I can manage at a given moment — and what I cannot. I have learned that I cannot go shopping when it comes to groceries and everyday necessities. This type of shopping overwhelms me reliably: the density of stimuli, the need to make many small decisions, people, noise, time pressure. In contrast, “shopping” in the sense of rarer, less existential purchases is sometimes possible. It feels more voluntary, more playful, less tightly bound to daily functioning. Perceiving and acknowledging this difference is part of my control: not pretending that I can do everything, but seeing what is sustainable and what is not.

My hearing aids are more than technical aids; they are part of my self-guidance. With the tinnitus noiser, I can overlay the background noise in my head and prevent the tinnitus from pushing itself to the foreground under stress and dominating everything else. In particularly demanding environments — for example, in IKEA — I switch to music. Mainstream pop is ideal for this: the songs are predictable, I know many of the lyrics, I can sing along internally. Around me, a kind of acoustic protective field emerges. The sounds of the room recede into the background; my perceptual radius shrinks to about one or two metres. Suddenly, children screaming, loud voices, or the constant bustle are no longer the main actors, but merely a distant backdrop.

The internal singing makes the difference. It is not passive sound exposure but an active process. I follow the melody, the structure, the lyrics. Each song, through its presence, reminds me where I am and what I want to direct my attention to. I can latch on, move with it, synchronise myself with the music. In this way, I prevent my mind from drifting away unnoticed — something that can easily happen with classical mindfulness exercises or abstract skills. Music gives me structure, rhythm, and guidance. Control here does not mean suppressing everything, but consciously binding myself to something that carries me.

Another form of regulation I use is surprisingly simple: closing my eyes. When I am out and about but not at the centre of the situation, I sometimes notice how strained my eyes are. They are constantly scanning the environment, registering movements, faces, potential dangers or irritations. Closing my eyes for a brief moment feels like unplugging an overloaded channel. The tension drops noticeably. In that moment, I pull the plug on visual overload without withdrawing internally from the situation. It is a minimal but highly effective interruption.

In therapy sessions, this strategy has also become an important tool. When topics become demanding, when things get too loud or too much inside, I can close my eyes or consciously avert my gaze. In this way, I take energy out of the situation without leaving it. The other person remains there, the conversation continues, but the intensity drops to a level at which I can think, sort, and speak again. Control here does not mean having everything under control, but modulating the intensity of stimuli so that my system does not tip over.

At its core, this results in a very concrete form of control: I do not control my feelings in the sense of removing or suppressing them, but I control the conditions in which they move. Through the auditory channel via music and the tinnitus noiser. Through the visual channel by consciously closing or relieving the eyes. Through the level of everyday demands, by acknowledging that certain tasks — such as shopping for groceries and daily necessities — currently lie outside my window of tolerance, while others — such as occasional shopping — are sometimes possible. I decide how much world I expose myself to in any given moment. In this way, a potentially overwhelming outside becomes a space I appropriate through small, targeted interventions.

Control, for me, is therefore less a rigid state than a dynamic process. It is not about nothing being allowed to happen, but about having tools when something does happen — and about honestly assessing what those tools are sufficient for and what they are not. Mindfulness does not show itself only in silent meditation, but in the decision of when I turn on pop music, when I sing along internally, when I close my eyes, when I hold my gaze and when I consciously release it, and also in which everyday tasks I take on myself or delegate. The world remains as it is, but I have levers with which I can steer my own participation so that I remain capable of action.

This text emerged in dialogue with the AI application Perplexity and was developed step by step in a shared conversation.

Written on January 10, 2026 at 15:40. © 2026 Whisper7. All rights reserved.