Things Im Still Untagling

When Closeness Feels Like a Threat

Sometimes I think I’m wired backwards.

When someone gets close to me — really sees me, really tries to care — something in me just wants to shut down. Not because I don’t want connection. I do. So badly, it hurts. But closeness feels like I’m standing too close to a fire. Warm, but dangerous. Like the second I relax into it, I’ll get burned.

I think this is what people call avoidant attachment. I didn’t always have a name for it, but the signs were always there:

• I act distant even when I’m craving attention.
• I get uncomfortable when people try to take care of me.
• I hate depending on anyone — it makes me feel weak.
• When people expect emotional intimacy, I get overwhelmed.

It’s like my body believes connection = risk. So I push people away without meaning to. Or I disappear for a while. Or I act like I don’t care, when the truth is, I care so much it makes me feel sick.

It’s not that I don’t want to be loved. It’s that somewhere deep down, I’m scared I don’t know how.

“If You’re Gonna Leave, Just Go Now”

The fear of being left has shaped me more than I want to admit.

Sometimes I think I look calm on the outside, but inside I’m always scanning for signs someone’s about to leave. A shift in tone. A pause in a reply. A plan that falls through. My brain connects the dots way too fast: They’re tired of me. I messed up again. I knew this wouldn’t last.

These are abandonment issues — I didn’t ask for them, but they live in me. And when I feel them flare up, I do one of two things:

• I try too hard to fix everything and keep the person close.
• Or I shut down completely and pretend I never cared.

Either way, I’m not really in control. I’m just trying to protect myself from that drop — the feeling of someone walking away, confirming all the things I secretly believe about being unlovable.

Even “normal” things can feel like threats. It’s exhausting to carry this fear. But it’s real. And it runs deep.

Why I Keep Everyone at Arm’s Length

Avoidant attachment and abandonment issues — what a fun combo >///<

It’s like I’m scared of being too close and scared of being left, at the same time. So I build walls, but peek over them. I distance myself, but feel hurt when others do the same. I don’t let people in, but secretly ache when they stop trying.

How do you win when your own mind is playing both sides?

I tell myself I want peace, but I create chaos. I say I’m better alone, but then I feel empty. I want deep love, but the second it starts to feel real, I convince myself I don’t deserve it.

It’s like I’m holding my breath in relationships. And it’s not fair — to me or to them.

But I’m learning. Slowly.

Learning to Make Space for Me

Lately, I’ve been craving something I can’t quite name. Not more people. Not more love. Just… more me.

I call it self-space — the space to exist without shaping myself for someone else.

For so long, I’ve been surviving by adapting. Reading rooms. Saying what people want to hear. Being who I think I need to be to avoid being rejected. But that means I’ve spent more time performing than just being.

So now I’m trying to find space that feels safe — even when I’m alone. Not lonely. Just alone. Present with myself.

It’s weirdly hard. Sitting in silence. Feeling things fully. Not reaching for a distraction. But I want to know who I am when I’m not protecting or pleasing or pretending.

I want to feel like home to myself. None ever made me feel safe as I am to myself.

I’m Not Cold, I’m Scared

(The Misunderstandings)

People sometimes get me wrong.

They think I don’t care, or that I’m emotionless, or distant on purpose. They say I’m hard to read. That I don’t open up. That I’m cold.

But what they don’t see is the fear behind it all. The part of me that’s just trying not to fall apart. The overthinking. The past memories. The panic I feel when I try to say something real and the words get stuck in my throat.

I’m not cold. I’m cautious. I’m not heartless. I’m hurt. I’m not unavailable. I’m just scared of being too much, or not enough — or both.

I wish people would ask why I am the way I am instead of assuming I don’t feel. I feel everything. That’s the problem.

This Isn’t the End of the Story

(Where I Am Now?)

I don’t have all the answers. There’s still no exact neat resolution at the end of this.

I still get overwhelmed by connection. I still fight the urge to push people away. I still catch myself believing everyone will leave eventually.

But I’m not hiding it no more from it anymore.

I’m naming it. I’m writing it down. I’m giving it air. And that means I’m healing — even if it’s slow, even if it’s messy.

I want better for myself. Real love. Real safety. Real freedom to be exactly who I am, with no mask and no fear.

This isn’t the end of the story. It’s just the part where I finally stop running from it.