Let’s talk about attachment styles, shall we?

You know, those deeply ingrained survival strategies we picked up in childhood that now wreak absolute havoc on our adult relationships? Yeah. Fun times.

Mine is what therapists call disorganized and what I call emotional whiplash in a trench coat.

If you’re unfamiliar, disorganized attachment is what happens when the people you needed for comfort also scared the hell out of you. So now, as an adult, relationships become this exhausting, contradictory dance of “Love me!” and “Get away before you ruin me!” on a loop. Super casual stuff.

And here’s the thing: disorganized attachment isn’t charming or mysterious. It’s usually born from trauma, inconsistency, fear, and betrayal in formative relationships. So your nervous system doesn’t really do safety. It does survival. And survival doesn’t leave room for trust; it leaves room for strategy.

How I Got Here

Most people form secure attachments when their caregivers are consistently loving and responsive.

Me? I got “come here” followed by horrible things happening, only to later be asked, “Now what’s wrong with you?”

I learned early that connection wasn’t safe, and neither was being alone. So I adapted. I became hyperaware, hypervigilant, and emotionally bilingual: fluent in both longing and self-protection.

Now I can detect rejection faster than Wi-Fi finds a weak signal.

It’s a gift.

And also a curse.

Mostly a curse.

If I sense someone’s about to leave, I’ll beat them to it, emotionally, mentally, or by fully disappearing into the void of overthinking.

What It’s Like Dating Me (Godspeed)

I’m self-aware. Which helps. But imagine trying to hug a porcupine. One that really wants a hug but doesn’t know how to ask without stabbing you a little.

That’s me.

I crave intimacy, but the second it feels too real, my nervous system hits the eject button. I pull away, shut down, or get irritable because, deep down, I’m terrified you’ll hurt me the moment I let my guard down. I touched on this in my attachment, detachment, and everything-in-between post.

But if you actually give me space? I spiral.

“They don’t care. I knew it. They’re gone forever.”

(checks phone obsessively, debates texting “never mind lol”)

It’s like I’m stuck between two extremes: wanting to reach out and connect but also wanting to disappear before I get hurt. So I’ll do this dance where I push you away just to see if you’ll pull me back in, even though every pull feels like confirmation I’m not worth staying for.

Tips On What That Means

In practice, this means I might:

• Text you and then delete the message because “What if I’m too much?”

• Play it too nonchalant, confusing even myself.

• Overanalyze every little thing you say (or don’t say) like a detective hunting for clues of rejection.

• Pull away just as it starts to feel good, because good feels dangerously close to vulnerable.

But the thing is: I want someone to stay anyway. I want someone who understands that when I get prickly, it’s not a “go away” sign, it’s a “please be patient” sign.

Dating me is not for the faint of heart. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes exhausting. But beneath all the emotional fireworks is someone desperately trying to build something real, even though they don‘t quite know how just yet.

Inside My Brain During Connection

“They like me!”

“Hang on, do they really like me, or are they just faking it?”

“I can’t believe I’m trusting them.”

“Okay, I have to be gone now.”

“Why do they always leave?”

On a good day, it’s like playing emotional ping-pong with yourself.

On a bad day, it’s like having every relationship you’ve ever had following you around. while trying to be having a new one.

Disorganized = High Alert, Low Chill

This isn’t just a fear of closeness or abandonment. It’s both. At the same time.

It’s trying to regulate a nervous system that sees love as both oxygen and fire.

You want to be known, but the moment someone really sees you, you flinch.

Or you want to be held, but your body braces like you’ll be dropped.

And of course we want stability, but chaos feels more familiar and therefore safer.

I’m not indecisive. I’m just carrying emotional explosives labeled “handle with care.”

Set off by both affection and absence.

Cool, cool, cool.

Healing Is… Wild

There has been some good progress, though.

Therapy has taught me that love doesn’t have to feel like a rescue mission. That I don’t have to test people just to prove they’ll leave. That I can survive a moment of vulnerability without spiraling into shame or pulling a full emotional Irish exit.

It’s slow. It’s hard. But I’m practicing: sitting in the discomfort, not bolting, not clinging, just breathing through the “WTF is happening?” of connection.

And sometimes? I even tell people what I need… without assuming they’ll use it against me later.

It still feels like skydiving without a parachute.

But I’m doing it.

That’s growth.