I used to think proving myself in love was normal.
The push-pull was addicting like the crisp pop gum makes in your mouth. It was invigorating—that dulling ache of uncertainty. Churning inside. You’re up cradling the tiniest flame with shaking hands, but it’s something. Oh it’s something. That tiny sliver of affection is all you need.
Sometimes it’s just attention—and you’ll die for it. You’ll heave your tired body up that hill and die there. It’s because you’re used to it.
Somewhere down the line you learned early on that in order to receive affection you had to give something up. It was postponed or delayed. Stunted or disrupted.
So you’re stuck with this..madness. This liminal space of wondering if you’re ever quite enough. When you were little—you weren’t loved in entirety. It was in pieces or fragments. Even if they tried. You didn’t absorb consistency. You learned fragmentation.
You’re attracted to fragments of people. Splintering behavior that can read as warm on some days and cold on others. Freezing even. And right after your limbs begin to go numb after dragging yourself on your belly through that snow—a small acknowledgment that you exist. A smile, a chuckle, maybe even something happy follows.
And a small quivering thing inside of you goes, ‘All of it was worth it.’
You give, they take—it’s worth it. You sincerely uplift them and compliment them—and they only do it when prompted. You wear your heart on your sleeve—and they take it and accessorize it. You’re always the one to tell them you love them first. You take full interest in them and create libraries of memory just for them—and they never reflect the same intensity. You begin treating your connection like it’s work you’re happy to be at—and they’re happy to collect.
That discrepancy is painfully familiar. And that pain is wonderful. You can sink your fingers into it and play in the squishy parts of the wound. Even if it hurts..it just..feels good.
Your reverence for that body pain you felt as a child that you’re used to feels so fucking good. It’s safe and familiar. Safe because it’s muscle memory, not because it’s healthy.
So your lovers are all avoidants. Friends too, typically. It isn’t isolated and it spreads. The dynamic shows up subtly every time you feel that gap between yourself and something or someone else. Instead of being present and pivoting or leaving, you gaze into it and take it as a challenge. You begin negotiating yourself—maybe if you change some parts, modify your interests, sacrifice your time or peace of mind, and it cuts further and deeper into you. And you keep that pressure there. The knife stays. You push it in further for them.
Because that’s closeness. That’s your form of intimacy.
‘If they hurt me and I stay, it’s okay.’
‘If they hurt me and I stay, it’s worth it.’
‘If they hurt me and I stay, I can take it.’
‘If they hurt me, they can change.’
‘If they hurt me, it still means that it’s love.’
You get on your knees. You bend over backwards. Forwards. Twist and break your spine. Even when there’s no more parts of you to mangle, you’re still there. Offering out your arm.
There was never a payoff. But somewhere deep down..you’re aware of this cruelty.
It’s the wretched-sweet pain of ‘never quite knowing why’ that holds you still.
If you move? It means inevitably learning that you cannot receive sufficient care that way and that you must start providing it to yourself. It restores your authority to decide you’re worthy of loving.
And just like that—the gum doesn’t give you that satisfying pop.
