Addicted to Love: An Exploration of Intimacy
How quickly strangers become lovers and lovers become strangers.
I didn’t know it wouldn’t be easy — when I met the guy in tennis whites, last August, the Ted Lasso look alike, at the pickle ball party, who unabashedly kissed me hours after meeting. I didn’t know that meeting him would break me open entirely, a 14+ month rollercoaster ride of all the lows and all the highs, requiring me to peel back the emotional layers I’ve slathered on over the years, of hurt, fear, anxiety. I didn’t know that we would face one another physically and emotionally bare naked and slowly learn to share and listen, with grace. And I didn’t know that we would both fail more than we’d succeed. Hell, I had no idea that beyond our first meeting we’d date, move in five months later, move out last week, and not get married — that at times my heart would explode with joy and at times with rage and that I would leave so angry. I didn’t know love could be so hard. Maybe it didn’t have to be. Hindsight is 20:20.
The hopeful little girl in me thought love was just butterflies. It’s not. Sorry baby girl but sometimes its wailing screams and cries, or maybe we just loved hard. Love is hard. I’ve never had a love like him before. I loved him more than anything. I realized that of all the hard things I’ve done, leaving last week might’ve been the hardest: harder then signing a lease in New York City for a business with no experience, harder than smoking 5MEO-DMT in Janis Joplin’s old apartment and jumping into 2-years of deep trauma healing via psychedelic therapy, harder than closing said business and moving to Austin. And like everything else, I’ll flow through the fight, and keep growing. And not lose hope that the next love might be … easier.
When we met I was a year deep into healing patterns that didn’t serve me, learning why I'd chosen men who didn't choose me, but longing for partnership simultaneously. I was building stability so I could show up more loving. We were both finding our steady, and yet both showed up at times with wounded attachments, with less have and more need. And I had false expectations of a man: hoping he’d be the knight in shining armor to save me. From what? Nothing, but I expected perfection, as if he’d have it all figured out. And if he didn’t, maybe I could save him. PSA: No one can save anybody.
My grandma Honey used to say, “The easy way out is hardest.” She’s right. Staying felt easier, but it wasn’t. Ignoring my intuition left me angry, picking at him, waiting for change, knowing we weren’t on the same page. I chose stuck and wreaked havoc until I finally found the courage to leave. Leaving was hard too and since Grieving the lost hope of our fairy tale ending. I was dragging my feet, waited two weeks after breaking up to move out, as if I needed reason. And when he gave me reason, I stormed out. I signed the new lease and moved the next morning: but first grabbed us coffee. He didn’t look at me, “Leave it on the table,” were the last words he said to me before I took almost everything, didn’t wait for movers, packed up the industrial sized laundry bin from the maintenance team. I was too angry to realize he too might’ve been grieving.
When the task rabbit arrived six hours later, I had him remove the hooks drilled into our walls, like a madwoman, undoing the energetic hooks he hooked into me — the emotional see saw of deep love and codependency. Of his avoidance and my anxiety of my avoidance and his anxiety and our fierce longing to just be heard and seen. The rescuer in me didn’t want to leave. Up until the ninth hour the day prior, I was still delaying, replaying other options. He avoided me. That was all I needed. Anger made it easier for me to leave.
This was our pattern. My ANXIOUS (emotionally neglected) inner child would pick at him, dying for his attention, to be loved, heard, nurtured, seen. This caused his AVOIDANT (emotionally neglected) inner child to avoid and repel me instead of leaning in to share and listen, pulling back. Naturally! Who responds to picking? Neither of us had the tools to see what was happening, instead constantly engaging in this caustic behavior of chased and chasing from need. We needed each other. We were addicted to one another. We fucking love each other, deep. I thought love was enough. It’s not, actually.
When we moved in five months in, I shut down, frozen, a symptom of PTSD — “I feel like a firefly trapped in a glass,” blaming him childishly.“Why did we move?” he asked. “Because I love you,” I replied. “Love isn’t enough,” he said. He was right. And yet, I did a terrible job of loving at times, withheld my love, fought more than listened, expected more than I was giving. We spoke different languages but both just wanted to love and be loved, but had different needs — his more physical, mine emotional. I crave transparency, honesty, integrity, OPEN, and my inquiry often annoyed him, “What are you thinking about?” I’d ask, which was my way of saying BOO LET ME IN! But choosing an over thinker was just another pattern of mine, it was familiar --- My dad spends his life in his mind.
We split in August for no more than a week, my unhealed parts were running from fear and there were more lessons to learn and patterns to break. I was pointing at his lack instead of owning my own. We were both growing but not growing together. And so we took on MDMA assisted therapy to blow up our egos and communicate openly, but I couldn’t stop wondering if we’re supposed to be…My constant analyzation of the relationship was suffocating. But my intuition was whispering this isn’t working.
But my ego WANTED it to work, we CAN make it work— forcing, not flowing. We were forcing a square peg in a round hole, arguing sprinkled with great sex, over a year of memories, and a shared desire to get married and have babies. Gripping. But on Halloween my whispers became screams, my shadow parts showed in the form of “out of character” drinking, and completely dissociating. I don’t party—too much alcohol has resulted in me being raped more than once. So my desire to black out was my subconscious screaming, EJECT! Our love was now causing less growth and more pain.
We broke up the next day. “I love you. This is going to be so hard,” I said. He wouldn’t hug me back, another familiar feeling. Growing up physical love wasn’t something I often experienced. “You don’t know what love is,” he replied, “love doesn’t just leave.” Funny and true. I'd left in August and was leaving. And yet there were times he’d return home at 2A without answering my calls, or worse, not come home at all with no correspondence. The waiting was debilitating: Love doesn’t abandon even for a night. We pushed each others buttons, abandoned and abandoning. I should have left then, but I stayed, afraid to leave with lack of boundary and addicted to our possibility. SO many of us stay out of fear, anxiety, hope for future change without owning that life is in real time.
I could never get past him abandoning me those nights. But at 36, I want a husband and kids. And so I stayed. Because I love him. And so I stayed. Because he felt like home. And so I stayed. Because it felt easier. And so I stayed. Because I wanted our happy ending. I want a happy ending. I want happy. And so I stayed.
I was addicted to him, which I realized just days after some distance, still living together, but with space, I finally understood why he always felt like home, the familiar subconscious attachments, the anxious and avoidant ways I experienced growing up. Dr. Lori Gottlieb says it best, “We marry our unfinished business.” Even in all my self healing, I missed that which felt like home.
Love is another addiction. Mine started early. Age four, outfitted in my white lace dress, I walked down the living room aisle to “Here Comes the Bride” alone. I’ve always believed in fairy tale endings, always wanted to be a bride, and only just realized through this breakup that the Fairy Tale is mine to write. I don’t require another to complete my life because I am whole already. Everything We Need is Inside. But that realization didn’t come easy. Society fills us with great expectations: ring, dress, forever love, ceremony. And so little girls grow up longing for the day daddy gives them away to Prince Charming. And women spend their days and dollars prepping for dates because he “might be the one.” Primping, manicuring, waxing, lifting, tightening, whitening, in hopes we might be chosen. And after said date, we anxiously wait for him to call, and if he takes too long, we wonder if we “can” initiate. Silly. How quickly we abandon ourselves to become what others desire us to be, girls at least: size two, nice, quiet, pretty. Pick me. I love love and I want to build a family. But the dating game is trite, don’t you think?
—
This wound is fresh but in reflecting pre Thanksgiving I’m so grateful for the past year of gifts the relationship gave me. At times I felt so lost navigating, but I was just learning to be a teammate, how to love unconditionally, cohabitate, how to trust a man with my body and not dissociate, how to rein habit my body: feed me differently, move myself without anxiety, how to give and receive, to surrender. In his arms, my body opened, with his body, mine erupted. Our attraction was primal. And I could have shown up differently, given more, expected less, more presence, less stress.When we met, he made me feel safe. When I left, he was the only reason I didn’t feel safe. I needed to protect me. I wish he’d shown up differently, more open, honest, trusting but we were simply reflecting each others insecurities. I’d dreamed we’d heal together, walk each other home,but the human experience is layered, and the hurt left gaping holes. And the longer I stayed, the harder it was to leave, and in those few weeks, in between our ending and me moving, we reconnected, void of any pressure of our future life together, we fell into each other again, madly— at the very end, We loved, made love and we grieved. We comforted. We listened. We cried. And while I’d change so many things, I can’t. I can only celebrate what we co-created, a moment in time, — I’m grateful and I’m proud of me.
Leaving was fully owning that I have what I need: I don’t need a man to save me, a resume to prove myself worthy, others to validate me, even another to have a baby. And yet I desire all of these things, my parents to walk me down the aisle to the man of my dreams, who I co-create new life with all whilst leaning into my creativity. But that is Gods story to write. So I’ll keep doing me. I don’t feel called to download dating apps or let friends know, “I’m on the market again.” I’m letting it all settle, less rebound, more rebuild the home in and around me, with deep trust and fierce knowing I am loved.
I miss him with my entirety. The way he looks at me, touches me, grabs my hand, grabs my heart, holds me, hurts me— all of him.
But I have me.
I remember Thanksgiving 2020, I’d just begun psychedelic assisted therapy, newly uncovering the beginning of too many traumatic memories. I laid on my childhood bedroom floor in fetal position longing for someone to hold me and hear me, contemplating, “Can we be grateful and grieving at the same time?” I didn’t know if I’d ever come out of that process alive. One year later, healing, I "winged" Thanksgiving dinner for him and I —so overjoyed to host my new boyfriend in my dream Austin apartment, giddy. And this year I’m grateful that after 20+ sessions, I’ve brought myself back to life. Revisiting these two years, I bow my head to my heart in deep reverence that there is room for grief, gratitude and growth in all transitions in life … and I write as I embark home for the holiday reminded by Ram Das, “If you think you’re healed, try going home to spend a week with the family.” Good point.
—
In the event you’re feeling unworthy: Let me remind you that you are whole already. Dr. Evil was full of shit, “You complete me,” isn’t reality. No one can complete you or save you or heal you but you.
To all the younger versions of me, who feel the need to rush, Who get so caught up in the future that they stop having fun,
Who give their bodies unwillingly because they think that’s what he wants,
Who give their hearts and then feel empty, if he doesn’t call again,Thinking something is wrong with them, Without first even asking,
“Do I even like him?” Or just the idea of him? On some timeline I’m abiding by to make my parents And society happy?
Or Am I just chasing Daddy’s, Love?
And to all the older versions of me who followed the timeline and are just operating on autopilot, Weren’t happy — but didn’t bother to consider, “What makes me happy?” — It is NEVER too late to start living your life. Even if you have kids, and history, A house, a mortgage, commitment, routine. There is still time to choose you, It’s your life.
Relationships take work: communication is a powerful thing — and a third party is so helpful in navigating. But seeking outwards for validation isn’t. Instead look into why you’re feeling empty and how you’re filling: booze, work, another human, scrolling, sweating, and the like. Limit the extra, start feeling. Walking away is challenging. But no one is stuck. Sovereignty is freedom. And choosing our choice is liberating. So if you find yourself going through the motions, autopilot: in a job, relationship, whatever it may be, find the courage to dig deeper, in stillness. Start listening to your heart, not your ego, to the fear and go underneath. Little steps become big ones, hard decisions become easy, doing what is best for you might feel selfish but we can’t live for another, anyone, even a job that is taking more than giving. Stepping out of my love isn’t about not choosing him. It’s about choosing me. And breaking societal conditioning of staying, knowing that something is no longer serving me — even at 36. Even if I love him. I love me more. Self love is a journey.
Face yourself to free yourself. Everything we need is inside.
With Love and gratitude, Olivia
** If you’re ready to learn you, unlearn you, become who you are, your messy sexy beautiful, join me. I have two offers:
Limited 1:1 Coaching spots available. 38 days until 2023. COMMIT.
My first 6-week women’s group immersive. Beginning January 2023. For more info, fill this out.
If you just want a 20 minute chat to see what is the best fit, book here.