When It Comes to Love, Trust Your Instinct, Not Your Anxiety

I used to be half of a volatile, explosive relationship that made me feel as if I were walking on eggshells every time I took a step. I never knew when to expect the next fight or breakup, and the heavy feeling in my chest was a weight I carried even when things were “fine.” Part of me knew it wasn’t a healthy relationship, and the little voice inside my head told me I should be wary of more of what I’d already experienced with him: more insecurity, more cheating, days or weeks of no contact, and less love than I needed and deserved. That little nagging voice was there for a reason— it was urging me to pull away from a comfortable but negative routine. In retrospect, I wish I’d listened to it sooner, because I could’ve used that time to work on myself rather than wasted it trying to “fix” him. 

The relationship finally boiled over and we ended things for good last summer. Even though the dissolution of that relationship (and the closure that followed) felt like a relief, I didn’t expect the anxiety I developed in that relationship to carry over when I started dating someone new. It didn’t matter that the new guy I was dating hadn’t given me a reason to feel anxious; I’d stressed so much and so often in my last relationship that worry calcified a part of my mental process without me even realizing it. 

We’re only human, and we develop patterns and fight-or-flight responses from experience. Patterns are built to protect us from harm. If something reminds us too much of a negative experience, we push it away subconsciously, all the while thinking: “I’m not going through that again!”

But patterns in our thought process deserve to be examined and reworked, especially when it comes to dating. Everyone is different, and it’s unfair to treat someone a certain way because of how someone else treated us in the past.

It’s negative patterns, born from previous relationships, that prevent us from having healthy, positive relationships now. When we try too hard to protect ourselves from getting hurt by someone else, we end up hurting ourselves by subconsciously pushing or pulling away through accusation, jealousy or withdrawal. 

After my last relationship, I thought that by taking some time— a year— off from dating to reconnect with myself, I’d be able to enter a new relationship with a clean slate. I thought the scars from all the name-calling and infidelity would be nothing more than faint, barely-noticeable marks on my psyche.

Wrong.

When I met the next person I wanted to date, I wasn’t really looking. The thought of a healthy relationship was appealing, sure, but I knew better than to try to force something that wasn’t there just for the sake of not being single. So, when I met him, the reward center in my brain shot off fireworks: Act, you fool! The time is now!

When we met, it felt like my heart heaved a sigh of relief. I recognized the feeling as something I didn’t quite know from experience, but from something innate within me that said: “there you are.”

I’d only been seeing him for a couple of weeks when my anxiety reared its head. It was out of context, because I completely adored him— he was funny, handsome and successful, and most importantly, he treated me well. I never felt like I had to compete for his attention with other women, and he kept in regular contact when we weren’t together. I had no reason to think things wouldn’t work out the way I wanted them to, but the part of my brain that was jaded from being with someone who treated me poorly was wrestling for control of my actions.

Ultimately, my anxiety got the best of me. It sucked.

We’d just seen each other for the first time in a little over a week (I was out of town and then he was out of town), and I’d spent the night at his house before we separated and went about our regular day. He’d made a point to see me the night he got back into town, but I was bothered by what felt like a disconnect upon his return. My instinct told me it had to do with both of us catching up on work and with friends, but my anxiety told me otherwise. He’s not interested. It was just a sex thing. Well, that was a fun 21-day-free-trial! 

Later that day, he sent a text asking how my day was. I asked him if he wanted to get a drink later. He said he’d made plans with friends, but that I could probably join.

My brain flashed to similar conversations with my ex: “you can probably join” always translated to “I won’t talk to you until I feel like it, maybe in a couple days.” He’d go MIA after we agreed on plans, and that was just how it went. 

So my fight-or-flight habit took over. Suddenly, I caught myself going down a rabbit-hole of anxiety. “He’s not going to call you,” that little voice in my head warned. “You may as well just get over it now.”

I was paralyzed by it. My brain and my heart froze up at once.

Just as I was about to fire back a text, something else in my brain clicked— my heart, my instinct, told me that everything was fine, that I had no reason to worry, and to put the phone down and go for a walk.

I did.

On my walk, I was able to identify my anxiety for what it was: an ugly scar left by someone who didn’t deserve my heart.

In identifying it, I was able to separate from it. It became an entity of its own that exists outside of myself. It wasn’t part of me anymore, because it has no place of value in my current relationship with this new person who doesn’t deserve to be crucified for something someone else did. 

If it doesn’t work, it’ll be because we have other issues— ones unrelated to those formed from the letdown of someone else.

Your anxiety will tell you that everyone will hurt you, that life isn’t fair, that you’re undeserving of someone good.

Your anxiety is a liar, and your heart always knows it. If you listen, it’s louder than your fears.

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