Hi Alecsee:

Thank you for sharing so openly. Your words carry so much weight—grief, longing, and a deep desire to make sense of what happened. I hear how much this relationship meant to you, and how hard it is to sit with the feeling that you came so close to something meaningful, only to watch it slip away.

There’s a theme that runs through your message that I want to gently name: fear of abandonment. It shows up in so many of the patterns you described:

* The feeling of being cursed—or doomed to be alone—just as something meaningful seems within reach, only to fall apart at the last moment.

* The urge to go “all in,” sending messages and videos, hoping to preserve the connection before it disappears.

* The anxiety about her silence and the possibility that she might move on without telling you.

* The regret and self-blame—believing that if you’d just been calmer, more in control, maybe you could’ve saved it.

* The hyper-analysis of your decisions, and the fear that emotional reactions have cost you something permanent.

These are all signs of someone who’s been hurt before—someone who’s learned that closeness can be unpredictable, and that love might vanish without warning. That kind of fear can make us cling harder, speak louder, or act out of desperation—not because we’re irrational, but because we’re scared of being left behind.

I just happened to watch a video this morning, one that speaks directly to this. It’s called The Fear of Abandonment: How it Can Push People Away by Tim Fletcher. He talks about how abandonment wounds can lead us to act in ways that unintentionally create the very distance we fear. He also offers insight into how healing begins—with self-awareness, inner work, and learning to build a relationship with ourselves.

You’re already doing some of that work. You’re reflecting, naming your patterns, and trying to stay grounded. That matters. And even if this relationship doesn’t mend, your healing doesn’t end here. You’re not cursed—you’re human, and you’re learning.

🤍 Anita

Dear Emma:

Reading your message, I can feel how heavy things are for you right now, and I really admire how honest and thoughtful you are, even when it hurts. You’re doing such deep emotional work, and that takes real courage.

From what you wrote, I hear a few big things:

* You’re dealing with fear of abandonment, which makes it hard to set boundaries or stay in relationships. You often leave before someone else can.

* You feel guilty when you set boundaries, especially if you think someone might be hurt. And when others set boundaries with you, it feels painful too—almost like rejection.

* You’ve lost relationships and chances at work because you assumed people would leave or think you weren’t good enough.

* You’re grieving Philip, and it hurts even more because you feel like it was your fault. That kind of self-blame makes the sadness even deeper.

* You feel overwhelmed by contact with your mom, even when the conversation seems light. It’s like her presence takes up too much space inside you, and you’re trying to find room to breathe.

* You want to be accepted as you are, but you’re afraid that if people really see you, they might leave.

These are painful patterns, but you’re facing them with honesty, Emma. That matters so much.

Here are the questions you asked me, and my answers:

1) “Could it also have to do with your father leaving you? Just like me, an abandonment wound?”- Not that I’m aware of. My parents divorced when I was about six, and my father moved out. I have no memory of him living with me and my mother, except for one—an argument between them. I don’t have any positive memories of him as part of the family, so there was nothing to miss when he left. If I carry an abandonment wound, I believe it comes from my mother. Too often, she treated me like “the other”—as if I were a stranger, or even an enemy she needed to guard herself against.

2) “Also because I recognize the wanting to please…in order for people to please not leave you. That is such a painful feeling, right..”- Yes, I know that feeling very well. To avoid my mother’s anger, shaming, and blaming, I shrank myself so much that I lost touch with my boundaries altogether. I became like a puppet—my movements were not my own, but determined by other people and circumstances. Even when I heard “no” in my mind, I wouldn’t speak it. I just stayed silent.

In my mind, growing up (growing “in”, more accurately), my mothers’ emotions were everything. She took ALL the space. She was loud, talked a lot.. lots of self-pity, histrionics. So, there was no space for my emotions, for my thoughts, and I was afraid that any expression on my part will trigger her.. so I suppressed and hid so much of myself.

3) “How are you now, do you feel like you can be yourself a bit more?”- Let me give you a small example. I’ve had a persistent issue with my computer and couldn’t fix it on my own. For weeks, I didn’t ask anyone for help because I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone or cause stress. But this morning, I did ask—and I felt proud. The issue still isn’t resolved, but that small action marked a shift. It was a step away from self-abandonment, a step toward building a new habit. Asking for help part of asserting myself, an act of taking space.

4) “Is it for you that usually something has happened, or is it when they come too close?”- It’s usually when someone gets too close. That emotional closeness feels dangerous—like they might suddenly see through me.. see that I am not worthy of their trust or affection, and turn against me. So I withdraw before that can happen, hoping to avoid the hurt.

I think that I’m afraid that other people will see me the way my mother saw me: someone who is not good-enough, someone who deserves to be shamed and guilted and.. well someone (using my mothers words), someone who is “A Big Zero”.

5) “How did she react? If I may ask.”- When I was younger, my mother would slap me across the face as she shame me with her words. I remember one time she said, “The only thing I like about you is that, when I hit you, you look down at the floor and don’t talk back.” Years later, in my early twenties, she charged at me again, arms raised to hit. But that time, I reached out and grabbed her hands to stop her. I didn’t hurt her—I just applied enough pressure to hold her back. She went limp, backed off. And she never tried to hit me again.

6) “But I think it was not right for her to teach you that, right..? How else is a person to feel safe in this world?”- I don’t blame her for being suspicious—her own childhood was full of betrayal. But I also see how harmful that message was for me. If only she had trusted me, even while distrusting the rest of the world, that could have given me a safe place to land. But she didn’t. She saw me as a threat too—and that left me without any safe space at all.

A few things I wanted to add before closing…

You’ve been navigating so much, Emma—with your parents, with Philip, and inside yourself—and I truly admire your strength. The fact that you’re doing therapy, seeking out insights, and trying to understand your patterns is remarkable. That’s not just healing; it’s leadership. You’re leading your inner life toward something freer, more honest, and more peaceful.

About your parents: I think your instinct to limit contact and create space is wise. You’re not doing it to be cruel—you’re doing it to breathe, to heal, to hear your own voice. Guilt may still show up, but it doesn’t mean you’re wrong. It means you’re stretching beyond old conditioning. You don’t owe anyone constant access to you—especially when it comes at the cost of your peace.

And about Philip— I wonder if part of what makes the bond with him feel so special now is the space between you and him. If you were to reconnect, that space might close, and the reality of the relationship, the closeness—could stir up the same old fears. This cycle—idealization, closeness, fear, withdrawal—is something many people go through while healing from attachment injuries. It’s not a flaw in who you are. It’s a pattern rooted in past pain.

And still, your sadness is valid. Your longing is valid. Your grief makes sense, because this wasn’t just a breakup—it was the loss of something that felt meaningful and safe, at least in moments. I know it hurts, especially when it feels like your own patterns pushed him away. But even this hurt can be part of your healing. You’re learning what needs attention. What needs tenderness. What’s ready to shift—not because you’re broken, but because you’re growing.

You’re doing the work. And that matters so much.

Sending you warm hugs 🤍 Anita

Hi Confusedasf:

Thank you for your message—it means a lot. I’m really glad our conversations have supported your healing, and I’m proud of you for choosing to keep moving forward, even when it’s hard.

Whatever comes next, I believe in your growth. Whether we cross paths again or not, I’ll be cheering you on. Please take it one day, one step at a time, patiently. You deserve peace and healing.

Take care of yourself 💛

With love, Anita

Dear Emma:

I am glad to read back from you, but sorry you feel so tired and tense. I read only the beginning and ending of your message but will read attentively tomorrow morning.. or later tonight. When I read “warmest hugs!”- I thought: I need cool hugs, very cool- it’s so hot here (and no air conditioning). Back to you later..

Coolest hugs!

Anita

Dear Alessa:

It’s so good to see you back—welcome! You’ve been missed this past week ❤️

Your post was thoughtful and full of insight. I really liked how you connected your son’s moment—trying to clean up the mess—to bigger ideas about how we grow and learn. It’s true: being a child means constantly learning rules we don’t know yet, and being watched while we figure things out. That can be hard.

What you said about the sense of self forming through other people really stood out to me. It’s sad but true—when we’re rejected as children, it doesn’t just hurt, it shapes how we see ourselves. That feeling of failure can sink deep.

I also loved this line: “Being alone is a story we tell ourselves so we can better understand others.” That’s such a gentle way to look at loneliness—not as something broken, but as something that helps us grow and connect.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts. You brought a lot of warmth and wisdom to the conversation. I hope you keep posting—your voice adds something special here.

With care, Anita 🤍

Hi Peter:

“Camus defines the absurd as the tension between our deep longing for meaning and the universe’s silence… He insists on staying with the absurd… refusing to resolve it or fix it… refusing to resolve it or fix (the tension).”-

As in to accept the things we cannot change (the tension) and the courage to change the things we can (the resistance ?

Hi Peter:

You wrote, “My family would reject most of what I have written and not understood.”- They would—because they already did..?

That line felt so familiar. When those closest to us can’t witness our inner world, the ache folds in deeper.

Then you quietly offered: “(I sleep a little better and handle panic attacks a little better)”- I don’t remember you mentioning panic attacks before. And placing it in parentheses—it struck me. Maybe it’s something you want quietly known, not spotlighted. Still, I saw it. And I’m glad—truly—that sleep and those waves are just a little softer now.

“I have lived in that space waiting for someone to paint the brushstrokes…”- Me too.

“If only I could see myself…”- When a child isn’t seen for too long, darkness settles inside. Living gets put on pause until someone kind enough notices the child-in-the-dark and gently turns on the light. The child doesn’t even know where the switch is—it’s too dark to look.

Back on July 17, 2018—exactly seven years ago- you wrote: “For the longest time I was depressed about being depressed… Today I might say I have a relationship with depression. I no longer fear it.”-

I was diagnosed with major depression, prescribed with SSRIs for 16-17 years straight (1997-2013). What helped lift me was the slow practice of Expressing the Suppressed—the stream-of-consciousness journaling that flows in my threads (and here)- because so much stayed buried for so long.

Surviving in the dark for so many, many years means suppressing not just feeling, but self. Survival is not thriving. Thriving is Expressing.

I just noticed that you submitted a new post in my own thread: “The illusion isn’t that the painting isn’t real but that it forgets it’s on the canvas.”- Brilliant, Peter. Truly. Your stream flows with depth, and your brilliance lives in the current.

So I have a question—maybe it’s naïve, or child-like: If emotions are the brushstrokes, and the canvas is what holds it all—always there— Is the canvas like a steady, unchanging parent? A presence that doesn’t leave? A super-parent? A God?

Oh.. and your newer post:… our descriptions point to the experience, but aren’t the experience itself—like a painting of a sunset versus standing in it.

A part of us is beyond thought. We remember the wholeness, the stillness.. even through words that can’t quite carry it…

The stillness we craved for, for too long… A safe place where we can rest..?

Anita 🤍