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#1
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I get really anxious when people get too close to me - to the point where I panic when the phone rings and I agonize about answering texts and emails, changing and proof reading them multiple times.
My experience of attachment, as I'm coming to understand, is that of becoming what the other person wants me to be. T says that I'm a chameleon, but I knew that long ago. I *want* to be me but I've been trained to believe that that's unacceptable, selfish even. So my coping mechanism has been to shut people out, isolate myself, tell myself that I'm just not a very good friend. I'm too selfish to handle friendships. I'm better off not having any so I don't get hurt/hurt others with my 'unrealistic' expectations. I want people in my life, but not enough to sell my soul for the privilege. I've been pushing people away for so long that I don't know how not to. I've been pretending to be someone else for so long that I have no idea how to be me. Rationally, it's ridiculous. I'm as entitled as anyone else to my own personhood. I can be melodramatic and a bit strange, but I think nothing of dealing with other people's quirks. People are entitled to their quirks, it's what makes them human (and interesting! And fun!). So if I appreciate humanity in others, why can't I appreciate it in myself? Why can't I see that others appreciate seeing humanity in me? Not only am I selling myself short, but I'm unfairly judging everyone else too...
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'... At poor peace I sing To you strangers (though song Is a burning and crested act, The fire of birds in The world's turning wood, For my sawn, splay sounds,) ...' Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue |
![]() Freewilled, RTerroni
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#2
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I can so relate
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#3
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Quote:
Yes, this exactly. I do it without even thinking, it's so ingrained - fall into the pattern that the other person expects. And even though it wears me out and I end up feeling drained and upset I can't seem to not do it...
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'... At poor peace I sing To you strangers (though song Is a burning and crested act, The fire of birds in The world's turning wood, For my sawn, splay sounds,) ...' Dylan Thomas, Author's Prologue |
![]() Freewilled
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