I Forgot Where I Ended and You Began

When Love Becomes Identity and Attachment Turns into Addiction


At some point, I stopped saying “I want you”
and started thinking “I need you.”

I didn’t notice when it happened.
There was no warning sign, no clear line I crossed.
Just a quiet shift—subtle, dangerous.

Love stopped being something I felt.
It became something I depended on.


---

In the beginning, I still had my own life.

My routines.
My interests.
My opinions.

I laughed with friends.
I spent time alone without feeling empty.
I made decisions without imagining how they would affect her.

Back then, love was an addition—not a replacement.

But slowly, almost politely, it started asking for more space.


---

I started checking in with her before checking in with myself.

If she was happy, I was calm.
If she was distant, I felt lost.
If she was upset, I panicked—as if her emotions were my responsibility to fix.

I didn’t call it attachment.

I called it devotion.


---

I told myself I was just “deep.”
Just “romantic.”
Just someone who loves intensely.

But intensity is not the same as health.

And I was crossing lines—
not hers, but mine.


---

I stopped doing things alone.

Not because she asked me to stop,
but because they felt meaningless without her.

Music didn’t sound right unless I imagined her listening too.
Places felt empty if she wasn’t there.
Achievements felt smaller if she didn’t witness them.

My inner voice had changed:

What would she think?
Would she like this version of me?
Is this enough to keep her?


---

That’s the moment you should be afraid.

When your identity starts negotiating with love.


---

I gave too much, too quickly.

My time.
My emotional energy.
My forgiveness—even when I shouldn’t have forgiven.

I said yes when I wanted to say no.
I stayed silent when I needed to speak.

Not because I lacked boundaries—
but because I was afraid boundaries would push her away.


---

The cruel part?

She didn’t ask for this sacrifice.

I volunteered.


---

I made her my emotional home.

And homes are dangerous when they’re not built on solid ground.

Every disagreement felt like a threat of homelessness.
Every distance felt like abandonment.
Every change in tone felt like an earthquake.

I wasn’t reacting to the present moment.

I was reacting to the idea of losing everything.


---

I remember one night clearly.

She went out with friends.
She was busy.
She didn’t text much.

Normal. Healthy. Human.

But my body didn’t understand logic.

I felt restless.
I felt invisible.
I felt unanchored.

It was as if my emotional oxygen supply had been cut.

And that’s when the truth became undeniable:

This wasn’t love anymore.

It was addiction.


---

Addiction doesn’t mean obsession.
It means dependence.

It means your nervous system has learned to regulate itself through another person.

Their presence calms you.
Their absence destabilizes you.

You don’t miss them—you crave them.


---

I hated myself for it.

I was educated. Self-aware. Rational.

How could I lose myself like this?

But attachment doesn’t care about intelligence.
It cares about unmet needs.

Needs that existed long before her.


---

Somewhere in my past, I learned that connection equals survival.

That being loved means being safe.
That being alone means being abandoned.

So when she became important to me, my mind made a silent decision:

Never let this go.

Even if it costs me myself.


---

I noticed the changes too late.

I no longer knew what I wanted without imagining her response.
I no longer trusted my own feelings.
I no longer felt complete alone.

Being by myself felt… hollow.

Uncomfortable.

Like standing in a room stripped of furniture.


---

I started chasing reassurance.

Subtle questions.
Indirect comments.
Small emotional tests.

Not to manipulate—but to confirm.

Do I still matter?
Am I still important?
Are you still here?

And every confirmation felt good—
but only briefly.

Like a drug that wears off too fast.


---

The more reassurance I got, the more I needed.

That’s how attachment tightens its grip.


---

I became smaller.

Not visibly—but internally.

I adapted too much.
Adjusted too often.
Compromised too easily.

I confused flexibility with self-erasure.

And she—whether she realized it or not—was slowly dating a version of me that wasn’t real.

A curated self.
A fearful self.
A self afraid to be left.


---

The breaking point didn’t come from a fight.

It came from exhaustion.

I was tired of monitoring moods.
Tired of guessing needs.
Tired of carrying the emotional weight of two people.

Love shouldn’t feel like self-betrayal.


---

When the relationship ended, it felt like a psychological amputation.

I didn’t just lose her.

I lost:

my routine

my emotional regulator

my sense of direction


I woke up and didn’t know who I was without her orbit.


---

The silence after attachment is terrifying.

Because it’s not empty—it’s loud.

Thoughts rush in.
Memories echo.
Questions scream.

Who am I now?
What do I do with all this feeling?
How do I exist without someone holding my emotional center?


---

The pain wasn’t romantic.

It was raw.
Physical.
Disorienting.

I reached for my phone out of habit.
I imagined conversations that would never happen.
I felt an urge to reconnect—not for love, but for relief.

That’s how you know it was attachment.

Love wants connection.
Attachment wants anesthesia.


---

Healing was humiliating at first.

I had to admit I didn’t lose a person—I lost myself long before that.

I had to relearn solitude.
Rebuild routines.
Rediscover preferences.

Simple questions felt difficult:

What do I enjoy?
What do I believe?
What do I want?

Without her as reference.


---

Slowly, painfully, something shifted.

I sat with discomfort instead of escaping it.
I allowed loneliness without medicating it with fantasy.
I resisted the urge to fill the void too quickly.

And the void began to shrink.


---

I learned something crucial:

Attachment is not about the other person.

It’s about the parts of us that don’t feel whole on their own.

When those parts heal, love becomes lighter.

Freer.

Safer.


---

I don’t regret loving her.

But I regret abandoning myself to keep her.

If I love again—and I will—it will be different.

I will bring my whole self, not offer it as collateral.


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Now, when I feel that old urge to merge completely,
I pause.

I breathe.

And I remind myself:

I can love deeply
without disappearing.