no clever title, i'm mourning

I don’t think I know how to relax. Nothing—and no one—ever feels safe enough, so I move through the world holding my heart close to my chest, hoping to escape this constant sense of grief.

I’ve been fighting a losing battle, willing myself to believe that the danger is imagined. That I’ve created a monster where there is none. But the truth of the matter remains: I cannot escape the way I feel. And what I feel, more often than not, is loss.

Lately, in therapy, we’ve been trying to understand the dynamics of my relationships, both romantic and platonic. They often begin intensely: the other person and I become almost inseparable; the roots of our lives become deeply intertwined. We devote ourselves to each other completely, either as the best of friends or the most impassioned lovers.

For a brief moment, it feels as though nothing could ever tear us apart.

Until a shift happens…

My therapist asked me about this “shift”: what it could be. I didn’t have the courage to tell her about my theory because that felt too vulnerable. I think I’m finally ready to open up.

The “shift” could be many things, and many of those situations I can accept cleanly. After all, it is normal that two people can grow in different directions. The peculiar case of my relationships seems to always be one of two events.

Sometimes, it feels like my novelty wears off. It’s as if after a period of time people just grow bored of me and move on. For whatever reasons they may have, our bond suddenly stops being important or worth maintaining.

On the other hand, in the vast majority of cases, the “shift” is the introduction of another person. Another friend or another crush. Another person who always seems to fill my role better than I ever could. In the spirit of “knowing my worth” and all the self-soothing nonsense we tell ourselves to feel better, I too tried to view this replacement through a different lens. Unfruitful, to say the least. I always end up where I first began because it is always obvious to me how the new person was adding to their lives in ways I never could.

Normally, I’d give examples to better illustrate what I mean but opening that box feels too painful right now, because I am grieving yet again.

I don’t want this to be a “woe is me” sort of piece, it’s meant to be more…cathartic. Although I enjoy the companionship, support, attention, love (you get the gist) that comes at the beginning of my relationships, I never want to monopolize anyone’s time or attention. I think it’s healthy for a person to want to build a support system that consists of more than just me—I’ve done the same.

The piece of the puzzle I cannot seem to fit is why making a new friend means neglecting your other friendships? I wouldn’t care as much if this were a casual friend, but a supposed “best friend”? That’s a pill too hard to swallow.

Sadly, these shifts are something that I’ve experienced since childhood. Because of it, I’ve become skilled at detecting when I’m about to be replaced. Which is why I can never truly relax. I can never fully open up. All I can do is hold my breath and silently watch it all unfold.

In this particular scenario, the fear of becoming obsolete is inextricably linked to my fear of abandonment. They fuel one another until it becomes impossible to separate the two. It’s an entirely different experience being left versus knowing you’re going to not only be left but also replaced. It’s a distinct kind of hurt.

Because of it, I’ve been living in a constant state of anxiety, never knowing when the connection will be permanently severed. I believe its why replacement feels more humiliating and destabilizing than just abandonment. I’m left mulling over my sense of value again and again.

What else can I do?

My brain learned this pattern rather quickly. Now, once the pattern is detected, it starts shutting the person out—self-preservation. But that does not mean that I abandon the relationship, no. However, I also need to make sure that at the end of the day, this won’t devastate me. And yet, the more evidence I’m given of just how much more enjoyable and novel the new person seems to be, the harder it becomes to maintain that.

So I do what I know how to do best—keep to myself.

What else can I do?

It’s become so ingrained in me that I’ve begun to live in anticipation of loss.

I’ve written about how last year went for me, and how I never completed the cycle of grief it left behind. And already, I’m in the early stages of mourning. I’m not sure just how much more I can take.

It’s clear to see how easily someone in my position could quickly turn inwards to find the blame for all this loss. My own insecurities and inadequacies taunt me incessantly. What did I do wrong? What could I have done differently? Maybe I opened up too much? Or not enough? Was I too distant? Too needy? Too boring? Maybe it’s the way I look? Or how I talk? Is it because I’m a mess?

Was I…enough?

And the answer to that last question is the only one I can provide: no. I don’t think I’ll ever be enough for anyone to want to keep me around for too long.

The easy way out would be to place the blame on the people who leave. The sadistic thing I do is find fault within myself. The real answer is somewhere in between both things, or probably nowhere near them.

Once again, “woe is not me”. I began accepting these shifts a long time ago; and the more they happen, the faster I am able to recover. They still do hurt, though.

As harsh and striking as my words may be, in many ways I do believe them. But these situations have only made me far more appreciative and grateful of the few friends I have who have never left my side—even with oceans between us. And it’s also helped me find comfort in solitude and in my own company. It’s taught me how to trust myself more, what my red lines are, and, most importantly, that there are other areas of my life that I should nurture more.

After all, what else can I do?

I’m not a person who is ruled by ego or pride, but I do respect myself enough to know that I should not beg for unreciprocated care. I’m wise enough to know when to let somebody go, instead of forcing a relationship that no longer feels genuine. Because, even with all my insecurities, I care about myself enough to know when to leave a situation that hurts me—especially before I start to resent the other.

Yes, part of me believes that I’ll never be enough. But there’s a fragment, somewhere deep inside, that still believes someday, more people will show up for me in a way that I deserve.

Until then, this still hurts.