From Here to Better

I feel everything too deeply.

That’s the truth. There’s no sugarcoating it. I don’t just feel—I absorb. Every pause, every silence, every shift in someone’s tone or behavior runs through me like a current. I don’t just notice it… I carry it.

Today I stumbled across a reel about attachment styles. At first, I thought, been there, done that—I’m anxious, right? But something about the language made me pause. So I watched it again. Then I googled. Then I fell down the rabbit hole. And now I’m reading Avoidant and Disorganized Attachments Recovery by Andy Gardner.

And suddenly, things are clicking. Hard.

I’m not just anxious. I’m disorganized.
Which means I’m both anxious and avoidant.
Which means I crave closeness and then get overwhelmed by it.
Which means I push and pull, love and retreat, reach out and then shut down—usually without even realizing it in the moment.

It’s the kind of attachment style that’s built on chaos.

And I didn’t get here by accident.

Growing up, my mom was my soft place to land—my warmth, my laughter, my comfort. But then she started working nights at the hospital, and she disappeared just when I needed her most.

My dad was emotionally distant and angry. He had a high-powered job and a short fuse. He was never there when it really counted. And when he was? I was the problem. The scapegoat. I could never do anything right. I was too emotional, too sensitive, too difficult.

I wasn’t allowed to have much of a life outside of school. My friendships were limited to the neighborhood. My voice? Often shut down. My needs? Brushed off.

So, I learned to shrink myself.
To mask discomfort with humor.
To keep my emotions in check until they exploded.
To latch on when I finally felt seen… and panic the second it felt like I might lose that connection.

Enter ghost-man.

With him, I felt safe—for a second. I was my weird, unfiltered self. He told me I was refreshing, that I was the kind of person who walks into a room and shifts the whole vibe. I let my guard down. And I thought, maybe this time it’s okay to breathe.

But then, without warning, he left. No conversation. No closure. Just gone.

And it wasn’t just the rejection that stung—it was the suddenness. The whiplash. One moment I felt seen, and the next, I felt invisible. It cracked open something inside me. Something I didn’t realize was still so raw.

Because to someone with disorganized attachment, abandonment doesn’t feel like just a breakup or a miscommunication—it feels like your entire nervous system catching fire. It feels like the past repeating itself.

And even though I know I’m not that little girl anymore… in that moment, I felt like her again.

Unworthy. Unlovable.
Too much and never enough.

I know I push people sometimes.
I know I test the waters to see if they’ll stay.
I know I fight when there’s nothing to fight about, simply because I’m scared.

It’s embarrassing to admit. But it’s real.
And right now? I don’t want to find the silver lining. I don’t want to talk about how I’ll heal or grow or rise above it.
I just want to sit in the truth of it.

This hurts.
This is exhausting.
This is me—untangling a lifetime of confusion, fear, and longing.

I’m reading the book, taking notes, underlining the parts that make me pause and say, Oh. That’s me.
But more than that, I’m learning how deep these patterns run.

This post isn’t about fixing it.
It’s about acknowledging it.
It’s about finally putting words to the ache I’ve carried for so long.

So here I am.
Not wrapped up. Not resolved.
Just real.

Still hurting. Still learning.
Still here.