Left on Read, Left in Ruins: The Social Toll of Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria

The Message That Lingers

It usually starts with a message that seems thoughtful enough:

"Hey! How have you been?"

There's a flicker of something warm in your chest. Maybe surprise. Maybe hope. Maybe a quiet kind of excitement that someone thought of you after so long. You pause whatever you're doing, take the time to respond — kindly, carefully, openly. You ask them how they are, maybe even suggest catching up.

And then...

Nothing.

Just those three bouncing dots — the eternal ellipsis. Then silence. A day passes. Then a week. Then three months later, they pop back in with something casual like, "Sorry, just been busy".

As if the conversation only just started.

And the worst part?

They have no idea what that silence did to you. How it lodged itself into your chest like a splinter. How you stared at that screen, refreshing it more times than you'd admit. How it echoed —again— that maybe you just care more than other people do.

To them, it was a message. To you, it was the beginning of another emotional bruise you can't explain.

Emotional Permanence: When Silence Becomes a Memory Loop

Some people feel things and then let them go. Others feel things and keep feeling them — on loop, like a song that never quite finishes. That's emotional permanence. And for those of us wired this way, especially with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD), silence doesn't fade — it festers.

Where others might shrug and say, "They're probably just busy", my brain doesn't stop there. It rewinds. Replays. Reconstructs.

Did I say too much? Was I too eager? Did I make them uncomfortable?

And even when I know —logically— that people get distracted, that life gets in the way, my emotions aren't governed by logic. They're governed by a sense of abandonment that doesn't understand time. What happened a week ago can still feel like it happened this morning. What was never really a rejection can still feel like one.

Even if the message was left unread, the meaning behind it gets read over and over until it burns into memory. It's exhausting. And worse, it's invisible. People assume we overreact. What they don't see is how much work it takes just to not respond. To not send a follow-up. To not spiral. To sit with the echo of a message you were so ready to receive a reply to — and somehow convince yourself that your reaction isn't unreasonable.

Ghosted by the Busy

There's a certain script people fall back on when they've disappeared from your life:

"Sorry, I've just been so busy lately" "Things have been hectic, you know how it is" "I meant to reply—I just forgot" "I thought I hit send"

And on the surface, sure — it makes sense. Life is busy. People work. They have families. They deal with their own struggles. You're not entitled to a reply, right?

But here's the thing: people make time for what matters. If they wanted to see you, they would. If they valued the connection, they'd keep it alive. When every plan turns into "sometime", when every message turns into silence, you start to notice the pattern. And once you see it, it's hard to unsee.

Worse still, the inconsistency is confusing. One moment, they're reaching out — warm, excited, full of exclamation marks — and then nothing. No follow-through. No energy to maintain what they started. And for someone like me, it doesn't feel casual. It feels like a bait and switch.

You told me I mattered. You opened the door. Then you walked away and left it creaking behind you. And every time that door creaks, I flinch. Because I never know if it's you coming back, or just the wind reminding me I was foolish to hope.

The Disparity of Time and Value

There's this unspoken hierarchy in adulthood: The busier you are, the more important you must be. The more obligations you juggle, the more "valid" your time becomes.

And when you don't fit neatly into that model — when you're on disability funding, out of the workforce, or living a life that doesn't revolve around a packed schedule — people start treating your availability like a weakness instead of a kindness.

They assume you'll be there whenever. That your time is more flexible. That plans don't need to be firm because, hey — you've got time, right? But availability isn't the same as disposability.

I still carved space out of my day to respond to your message. I still emotionally prepared for the plans we tentatively set. I still sat there, waiting — for a reply, for a reschedule, for a sign that I wasn't just a placeholder for when everyone else was unavailable.

It feels like you're optional in other people's lives. Like you're someone they interact with when they're bored, lonely, or curious — but not someone they prioritise. And that stings. Because I'm not just passing time — I'm investing it. And every time that investment is ignored or wasted, it chips away at how much of myself I'm willing to offer again.

It's Not Just in My Head: The Mental Toll of Being Led On

People love to tell you not to take things personally. But when someone reaches out, gets your hopes up, and disappears again — how can't it feel personal? Its not about needing constant attention. It's about consistency. And when you're neurodivergent — especially if you experience Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria — you start to internalise the inconsistency as proof that you're not worth sticking around for.

The spiral begins quietly:

Maybe I came on too strong. Maybe I talk too much. Maybe I'm just not interesting anymore.

And then the thought you hate having:

Maybe they never really wanted to talk at all.

That's the emotional whiplash of being "led on" platonically. Not because someone was cruel, but because they were careless with your hope. You think about unfriending them. Not out of spite — but out of desperation. You wonder if disappearing is the only way to be noticed. If the only thing that'll make them reach out, is you pulling away first.

And that's the worst part: You shouldn't have to go to extremes just to feel like someone gives a damn. But when every interaction ends in silence, and every plan fizzles out, you begin to ask yourself:

Why am I the only one trying to make this friendship feel real?

What I Wish They Knew

I don't expect people to message me every day. I don't need constant attention or a diary full of plans. But what I do need — what people like me crave — is sincerity.

If you reach out, mean it. If you say you want to catch up, follow through. And if you can't? That's okay. Just don't pretend.

Because for some of us, your silence isn't a blank space — it's a trigger. It echoes in places that were already too loud. We don't just notice being ignored — we feel it. Viscerally. Endlessly.

And even if you didn't mean to hurt us, the impact still lands. Every unanswered message becomes a lesson in caution. Every vague "soon" teaches us not to trust timelines. Every ghosted plan confirms the voice in our head that says we're too much — or not enough.

But we keep trying. Because deep down, we still believe people are good. That someone will see us —really see us— and treat our time, energy, and emotions like they matter. So, if you've ever wondered why your neurodivergent friend pulled away, stopped messaging, or quietly disappeared...

This might be why.

We weren't being dramatic. We were just trying to protect what little of ourselves we had left to give.

"People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel" — Maya Angelou

—TechHermit— Just a guy with a memory like an emotional trapdoor. Thanks for reading — I'll be over here replaying a message in my head from 2019 like it came in this morning.