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3 Toxic Relationship Habits to Avoid

3 Toxic Relationship Habits to Avoid

New York Times25-04-2025
Once, when my husband, Tom, and I were battling about something, I got so worked up that I blurted, like an angry toddler: 'You bad man!'
Conflict is 'inevitable and normal in intimate relationships,' said Andrew Christensen, a distinguished research professor at the U.C.L.A. department of psychology. But the way that couples manage it is a key to a healthy bond, he added.
There's a productive way to deal with conflict — attacking the problem rather than each other, for example — and an unhelpful way that fails to resolve the fight or makes it worse.
Name-calling, as I did, falls under the second category. (Fortunately, Tom laughed, which made me — grudgingly — laugh, too.)
Other unproductive habits? Criticism, defensiveness, contempt and stonewalling — often referred to as the 'four horsemen of the relationship apocalypse.'
But there are additional red flags that can arise when partners fight. I asked experts to share some, along with advice for what to do instead.
James Cordova, a professor of psychology at Clark University and the author of 'The Mindful Path to Intimacy,' said his clients often see fights as a zero-sum game, with one clear victor and one loser. But that approach 'is absolutely poisonous to intimacy,' he said, because both parties end up feeling unsatisfied.
Rather than striving to win, Dr. Cordova said, try to think of the conflict as a puzzle you're doing together. The goal isn't to finish first or to win.
James A. Coan, a professor of psychology and a neuroscientist at the University of Virginia, recommends taking what negotiators call a 'mutual gains approach,' where you focus on finding common interests and brainstorm solutions that benefit you both. 'Instead of dividing the pie, you build a larger pie,' he said.
Before a fight can escalate, reframe your 'win at all cost' mind-set, Dr. Coan said, by considering: Do I want to be right, or do I want us to be happy? Start by asking your partner about their position with genuine curiosity, he said. 'That orients you toward understanding rather than winning,' Dr. Coan said.
If you've ever uttered phrases during a fight like, 'My therapist thinks you're a narcissist' or 'My therapist told me I should stand up to you,' you're doing what Dr. Coan calls 'authority citing.' That's undermining your partner by referring to others' opinions, 'so that they have no recourse because they're not responding to you, they're responding to the authority,' he explained.
And weaponizing what your therapist said during a squabble, he added, is a 'terrible strategy for emotional intimacy.'
If you feel the urge to bring up your therapist's views, focus on your own feelings instead, said Tracy Dalgleish, a psychologist in Ottawa who works with couples.
Dr. Dalgleish said to ask yourself: What makes me want to bolster my argument? Why do I feel I have to push my point harder? What do I really need right now?
Then share what it is that you need, she said, and leave your therapist's comments out of it.
Dr. Cordova has noticed a red flag that he has termed 'Sméagol-ing,' based on a character in the film 'The Lord of the Rings' who changes 'from aggressive Gollum into sniveling Sméagol.'
During a conflict, one person will air a grievance, Dr. Cordova said, 'and the other person will respond with: 'I know, I'm the worst. I'm a terrible partner. I don't even know why you're with me.''
Rather than dealing with the problem, Dr. Cordova said, 'they just fold, like Sméagol.' And it's a tactic that distracts from and dismisses the other person's concern, he said. 'What you're fishing for is 'rescue me,'' he added.
However, this behavior isn't entirely passive, Dr. Christensen added. 'It's like, 'On the surface, I'm agreeing with you, but I'm exaggerating what you are saying to the point that it becomes an attack in and of itself,'' he said.
If your partner is Sméagol-ing, Dr. Cordova recommended that you respond with a blend of compassion and honesty. Start by affirming your partner's experience ('I know it's hard to receive feedback — it's hard for me, too') and reassuring your partner that you care. And then you can reiterate that you need your partner to understand what you're saying and why it matters, he said.
If you're Smeagol-ing, practice resisting the urge to fold, take the focus off yourself and address your partner's concern directly, Dr. Cordova said.
As Dr. Cordova and I were chatting about conflict strategies, he admitted that sometimes, when he and his partner are having a tiff, he'll cite scientific research.
'So we'll be in the thick of it,' he told me, 'and I'll say, 'Well, you know, Schwartz, et al did a study on this.''
I confessed to him that I've done the same version of 'authority citing.' Then we agreed that we probably shouldn't do this anymore.
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If you chew gum regularly, you're not alone. One study of U.S. teenagers and adults found that 62 percent reported munching on gum over the past six months. Gum chewing can affect various parts of the body, experts say — in positive and negative ways.
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My Parents Both Died By Suicide — On The Same Day. I Haven't Been The Same Since.
My Parents Both Died By Suicide — On The Same Day. I Haven't Been The Same Since.

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My Parents Both Died By Suicide — On The Same Day. I Haven't Been The Same Since.

The author's parents in 1947. In the middle of a plate of enchiladas and salad, the phone rings. I sigh — it's been days since I've had the time or appetite to enjoy a meal. My husband, Tom, is busy at the kitchen counter, so I reach for the phone, and my brother says, 'They're both gone.' It's 2 p.m. on Dec. 18, 1994, and with those three words, I am orphaned. After several years of suffering physical and mental anguish, my mother could take no more, and my father, who people later said couldn't bear the thought of life without his bride of 46 years, went along for the final ride, ending both their lives in their garage. On that day, as Tom and I made the 90-minute drive from our home in Massachusetts to the small farm in Connecticut where I was brought up, I looked to the sky, hoping for some kind of a sign — of peace, or comfort or simply of resolution. In the cloud formation above me I imagined two figures, waving goodbye. That was the first of many signs I have received over the now 29 years since my mother and father died by suicide at ages 72 and 73, respectively. My view on things in general had always leaned toward 'just the facts,' but in the space of 24 hours I began to look beyond the surface and open my eyes to what I could not or would not normally see. The days that followed were a haze of sorrow-driven activity, but some of what transpired remains clear. My father had taken care of all final arrangements, leaving detailed instructions on where to go and who to contact. While not highly religious, my parents wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and so my brother, husband and I met with the congregation rabbi the day following the deaths, unaware that suicide was considered taboo in the Jewish religion. As such, my parents could not rest in hallowed burial grounds, something the rabbi made us well aware of moments after we were seated. He then asked point blank, 'What was the reason for your parents' sudden death?' I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and suddenly was aware of a way to place their final wish out of jeopardy. I blurted out 'mental illness.' 'Ah,' said the rabbi. 'For that reason, burial in our cemetery is granted.' The next day's graveside ceremony had me again looking toward the sky, but this time no cloud reached down to comfort me. Instead, the air fell cold on shoulders that were suddenly burdened by a weight that still, after all these years, has lightened, but never completely lifted. Over the next few months, a redefined 'normal' made its way into my life, but with it came a sense of vulnerability that remains hard to shake. I went back to work within a week. At the time, I was a general assignment newspaper reporter, trained to 'get the story, get out, and get writing.' Increasingly, I found myself lingering over interviews with those people who had been brushed or crushed by tragedy: the father of a drowning victim, a beloved high school teacher diagnosed with a brain tumor, the family evicted from their home by a heartless landlord. I somehow found solace in those I came to refer to as 'my people' — others who had been hard hit by a catastrophic circumstance. Soon that desire to cocoon myself in others' misery morphed into something else: fear. Fear of today. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of anything that might go wrong. If my husband was more than 10 minutes late getting home from work, I imagined he had been in an accident. If our cat had a slight cough, I was convinced it was congestive heart failure. If my brother said he was feeling blue, I worried he would go down the same path our parents did. The author in 2023. Oddly enough, I was the only person I didn't fret over. In fact, I wished something would go wrong with my health or job — it sounds ludicrous, but I convinced myself that a health or employment problem of mine would go toward my family's tragedy quota and prevent other loved ones from harm. I also believed it might atone for my inability to prevent my parents' deaths. I can't count the number of times I have said, 'I should have...' and although my guilt will never completely subside, it has diminished over the past 29 years, replaced by a steadfast awareness of my parents' continued presence. Every October, around my father's birthday, either I or my husband find a new or rusty nail on our front door steps. A coincidence, perhaps, but I look at it as something more. When cleaning out their house, Tom and I had joked about the neat rows of mayonnaise jars that lined a bookcase in my parents' basement, filled with both new and old nails — a true testament to my father's frugality! I consider the annual discovery a love letter from my dad. And each day, before I leave for work, I hold a little fashion show in front of the mirror that used to hang in my parents' bedroom. My taste in clothing is similar to my mother's, and I view this daily exercise as an opportunity to connect with the woman who — for all I know — may be gazing back at me through the looking glass. I have also arrived at the unorthodox notion that my father (whose appetite was legendary among family members!) might take otherworldly enjoyment from the food I prepare during the holidays. For that reason, I always include one or two of his favorite dishes ― not only as a homage to the man who could polish off three of my homemade cinnamon rolls with ease, but also because maybe, just maybe, he can still taste and relish from his perch out there wherever he now is. Dec. 18, 1994, brought about other, more concrete changes in my life. I have reconnected with relatives, some of whom I had lost contact with for 20 or more years. It's bittersweet how losing family members can open the doors to the embracing arms of other family members. And for many years now I have been a volunteer ombudsman at a local nursing facility, working as an advocate for residents. A form of penance for an act I couldn't prevent? Perhaps, but regardless, for each time I am successful in bringing about a positive change for an elderly individual, I imagine my parents applauding from up above as they watch their now 68-year-old daughter doing a 'mitzvah.' The event that transpired on that cold, clear early winter day in 1994 has changed my life in so many ways — some for the good, others for the not so good. I'm kinder to others. I cherish the smallest of pleasures. I listen better. I cry more easily. I have trouble sleeping. I can't bear to be in an idling car. I wear vulnerability like a scent. I too often imagine the worse, for I know the worse can happen... because it did. But in a world where the worst exists, so too does the best. I'm satisfied with settling for the middle ground. If you or someone you know needs help, call or text 988 or chat for mental health support. Additionally, you can find local mental health and crisis resources at Outside of the U.S., please visit the International Association for Suicide Prevention. Sharon Nery is the former editor-in-chief of a business journal and was a reporter for a metropolitan daily newspaper in Massachusetts. She has been a columnist, restaurant and music reviewer, and is presently lead writer for a public relations agency in the greater Boston area. She is a federally certified ombudsman and does per diem work as a resident companion at an assisted living community. This article originally appeared on HuffPost in January 2024. Also in Goodful: Also in Goodful: Also in Goodful:

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In the middle of a plate of enchiladas and salad, the phone rings. I sigh — it's been days since I've had the time or appetite to enjoy a meal. My husband, Tom, is busy at the kitchen counter, so I reach for the phone, and my brother says, 'They're both gone.' It's 2 p.m. on Dec. 18, 1994, and with those three words, I am orphaned. After several years of suffering physical and mental anguish, my mother could take no more, and my father, who people later said couldn't bear the thought of life without his bride of 46 years, went along for the final ride, ending both their lives in their garage. On that day, as Tom and I made the 90-minute drive from our home in Massachusetts to the small farm in Connecticut where I was brought up, I looked to the sky, hoping for some kind of a sign — of peace, or comfort or simply of resolution. In the cloud formation above me I imagined two figures, waving goodbye. That was the first of many signs I have received over the now 29 years since my mother and father died by suicide at ages 72 and 73, respectively. My view on things in general had always leaned toward 'just the facts,' but in the space of 24 hours I began to look beyond the surface and open my eyes to what I could not or would not normally see. The days that followed were a haze of sorrow-driven activity, but some of what transpired remains clear. My father had taken care of all final arrangements, leaving detailed instructions on where to go and who to contact. While not highly religious, my parents wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, and so my brother, husband and I met with the congregation rabbi the day following the deaths, unaware that suicide was considered taboo in the Jewish religion. As such, my parents could not rest in hallowed burial grounds, something the rabbi made us well aware of moments after we were seated. He then asked point blank, 'What was the reason for your parents' sudden death?' I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and suddenly was aware of a way to place their final wish out of jeopardy. I blurted out 'mental illness.' 'Ah,' said the rabbi. 'For that reason, burial in our cemetery is granted.' The next day's graveside ceremony had me again looking toward the sky, but this time no cloud reached down to comfort me. Instead, the air fell cold on shoulders that were suddenly burdened by a weight that still, after all these years, has lightened, but never completely lifted. Over the next few months, a redefined 'normal' made its way into my life, but with it came a sense of vulnerability that remains hard to shake. I went back to work within a week. At the time, I was a general assignment newspaper reporter, trained to 'get the story, get out, and get writing.' Increasingly, I found myself lingering over interviews with those people who had been brushed or crushed by tragedy: the father of a drowning victim, a beloved high school teacher diagnosed with a brain tumor, the family evicted from their home by a heartless landlord. I somehow found solace in those I came to refer to as 'my people' — others who had been hard hit by a catastrophic circumstance. Soon that desire to cocoon myself in others' misery morphed into something else: fear. Fear of today. Fear of tomorrow. Fear of anything that might go wrong. If my husband was more than 10 minutes late getting home from work, I imagined he had been in an accident. If our cat had a slight cough, I was convinced it was congestive heart failure. If my brother said he was feeling blue, I worried he would go down the same path our parents did. Oddly enough, I was the only person I didn't fret over. In fact, I wished something would go wrong with my health or job — it sounds ludicrous, but I convinced myself that a health or employment problem of mine would go toward my family's tragedy quota and prevent other loved ones from harm. I also believed it might atone for my inability to prevent my parents' deaths. I can't count the number of times I have said, 'I should have...' and although my guilt will never completely subside, it has diminished over the past 29 years, replaced by a steadfast awareness of my parents' continued presence. Every October, around my father's birthday, either I or my husband find a new or rusty nail on our front door steps. A coincidence, perhaps, but I look at it as something more. When cleaning out their house, Tom and I had joked about the neat rows of mayonnaise jars that lined a bookcase in my parents' basement, filled with both new and old nails — a true testament to my father's frugality! I consider the annual discovery a love letter from my dad. And each day, before I leave for work, I hold a little fashion show in front of the mirror that used to hang in my parents' bedroom. My taste in clothing is similar to my mother's, and I view this daily exercise as an opportunity to connect with the woman who — for all I know — may be gazing back at me through the looking glass. I have also arrived at the unorthodox notion that my father (whose appetite was legendary among family members!) might take otherworldly enjoyment from the food I prepare during the holidays. For that reason, I always include one or two of his favorite dishes ― not only as a homage to the man who could polish off three of my homemade cinnamon rolls with ease, but also because maybe, just maybe, he can still taste and relish from his perch out there wherever he now is. Dec. 18, 1994, brought about other, more concrete changes in my life. I have reconnected with relatives, some of whom I had lost contact with for 20 or more years. It's bittersweet how losing family members can open the doors to the embracing arms of other family members. And for many years now I have been a volunteer ombudsman at a local nursing facility, working as an advocate for residents. A form of penance for an act I couldn't prevent? Perhaps, but regardless, for each time I am successful in bringing about a positive change for an elderly individual, I imagine my parents applauding from up above as they watch their now 68-year-old daughter doing a 'mitzvah.' The event that transpired on that cold, clear early winter day in 1994 has changed my life in so many ways — some for the good, others for the not so good. I'm kinder to others. I cherish the smallest of pleasures. I listen better. I cry more easily. I have trouble sleeping. I can't bear to be in an idling car. I wear vulnerability like a scent. I too often imagine the worse, for I know the worse can happen... because it did. But in a world where the worst exists, so too does the best. I'm satisfied with settling for the middle ground. Sharon Nery is the former editor-in-chief of a business journal and was a reporter for a metropolitan daily newspaper in Massachusetts. She has been a columnist, restaurant and music reviewer, and is presently lead writer for a public relations agency in the greater Boston area. She is a federally certified ombudsman and does per diem work as a resident companion at an assisted living community.

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