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I hurt him—not because I wanted to, but because I went into self-protection mode.
I believed that I could save myself from disappointment in love. Something inside me made me afraid, so I ran—again—before I could get hurt.
I was afraid of emotional responsibility. I feel like I already have so much on my plate with my own life—how could I possibly fit another person?
Is it even possible? What if it drains me emotionally? What if I can’t escape when it becomes too much?
What if I get so emotionally invested that I lose perspective, ignore red flags, or end up hurting down the road?
I remember telling a friend once, who was struggling in his relationship, that when two people struggle it’s often because both are afraid of getting hurt. I think that’s true for me too. I worry about losing myself in another person. I worry about forgetting who I am. I worry about having to share my precious time with someone who may not fully understand me.
It feels safer to be alone.
I tend to isolate, and when I do go out, it’s usually just for fun—while keeping everyone at an emotionally safe distance. It isn’t fulfilling, but it is safe.
On rare occasions, I let my guard down and allow someone in, because deep down I need trust and connection. But if it backfires, I retreat into isolation again—closing off, wishing things would change, wishing he would come find me, tell me he loves me, and wants me back.
I want to trust him, but I’m guarded, unsure if I can fully open, at least not yet. What proof am I even looking for? What does he need to show me that would make me feel safe with him? What action could create that trust? What are the “magic ingredients” that would make it work?
My friend told me about his girlfriend’s father, who left their family when she was young. It created an abandonment wound in her. If her partner isn’t attentive, she pulls back, afraid of getting hurt again. She needs his undivided attention.
Strangely, their story feels familiar to me, like a memory I’ve lived. It’s as if I were inside her, experiencing everything she went through. I’ve experienced this before, years ago, when a friend moved on with someone new. It shocked me to realize that what I thought I saw between him and me was what he shared with her.
Back then, I didn’t realize I could psychically tune in like that—that I could almost pre-live another woman’s destiny with a man I was dating. But how can I trust myself, or my ability to choose the right man, when things blur together like this?
Does love even matter anymore? Is my love not enough? Am I not enough? Am I not enough to be cared about?
It’s a strange world I live in, made more complicated not only by my empathic abilities but also by the traumas that shaped me. I often feel like I’m not enough for the people I care about, like I wasn’t good enough to be cared for as a child. My health and safety weren’t looked after. I was sick often, maybe subconsciously to cry out: “Look, something’s wrong here!” But no one seemed to notice or care.
Maybe that’s why I care so much about others. Why I want to help, to give, to make sure people feel seen and wanted. Sometimes I give too much of myself, becoming physically or emotionally close because I can’t stand the thought of someone feeling neglected.
That’s why I’ve had to learn to put my needs first. To fill my cup. To tend to myself. Because others rarely do that for me. If I don’t, I risk losing myself again. Sometimes that means being “selfish.” Sometimes it means isolating. Sometimes it means cutting off people who take too much.
Growing up, nobody taught me how to articulate my feelings, needs, or thoughts. Nobody wanted to hear them. Everyone just wanted to forget what happened. I only really learned to express myself in my late 30s, and that feels like it is too late. I mourn the relationships that fell apart before then because I didn’t know how to communicate.
My childhood wounds have ruined so much of my potential: my ability to build healthy relationships, to care for them in the right ways. I don’t mean to sound like I’m blaming everyone else; I know I’m responsible for where I am today. But those early experiences left scars.
It has taken me a lifetime to unlearn the dysfunctional patterns I was conditioned into as a child.
So this is what I wish I could tell him:
Please, give me some grace. I’ll never be perfect. I’ll always be a little emotionally messy. But I’m trying my best—and hoping it will be enough.
~
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