A WRITER IN LIMERENCE
This isn’t sexual. This isn’t romantic. This is the shape of my shadow, and it wants to play.
Content warning: contains mentions of sexual themes, eating disorder behaviors, and trauma/abuse.
The Foreword
I was single for a while. I was happy with that. Focusing on myself. In July, I met a woman. I started dating her. I think I was falling in love. I got broken up with.
In late September, I went to Paris. I ran into someone. We had a night like a scene from a movie. He asked me on a date and then never followed through on it, but continued to like every single one of my Instagram stories. I fell into limerence for a couple of days. There is something about perceived rejection that just activates this obsessive side of me. I did some shadow work. Reflected on my self-worth and the things I want in an intimate relationship. I was grateful for the experience.
I know that life will continue to test you on the same lesson again and again until you’ve mastered it. This limerence lesson is getting on my fucking nerves.
In October, I went to a shitty bar to get my mind off of this guy. At this bar, I met someone new. I wrote a bit about it.
I was fine at first…Then I fell into limerence. Shocker.
Again, I’m grateful for the experience because it forces me to do more shadow work, but this one sent me down a fucking rabbit hole. I decided to write through it.
I did a lot of self-reflection and rumination. I came out of limerence. I entered a slight state of mania, but I welcomed it with open arms. I even cracked open a Red Bull. Let’s get this party started.
I was listening to “Pixelated Kisses” by Joji and came up with a photoshoot idea to represent what it feels like to be a writer in limerence. I estimate I’ve replayed that song around 100 times.
I printed out two hundred copies of the 3 pages I had written and meticulously taped down all four corners onto the floor of my studio apartment. My friend came over and took some photos of me. I like how they came out.
I wrote about the whole experience. For a while, I kind of hated what I came up with. I didn’t think it was artistic or impressive. But does every writing expression have to be creative or impressive? No, I don’t think so.
It’s pretty honest. Raw. True. And isn’t that what people like? A peek behind the curtains that everyone has in front of them.
I often talk about how there is power in vulnerability,
but I have been weak.
I’m reluctantly opening these velvet curtains.
Fuck it.
Here is your peek.
The Caution
I went on a date with someone new. It went well.
I tell myself:
I can be healthy about this. I can be casual. Carefree, even.
I deserve good sex. I’m hot, he’s hot. This is fine! I deserve this. I feel good about it so far. My head is level.
Keep it fun. Keep it sexy. Keep it cute. I’ll just remain focused on myself and my life. Keep it separate. I do not want anything serious right now.
I’ll write about our date to practice descriptive imagery.
I pick up my pen and describe the cherry-red leaves on the trees in the park we walked, the berry-gloss lip print on our paper to-go cups, and every little detail that captivated me so.
I got this.
The Slip
I woke up this morning, and my very first thought was of him.
I go about my day. While doing my dishes, I listen to music and think about him. I think about him thinking about me listening to the music. I wonder if he listens to music and thinks about me. I hope he doesn’t think all of my music is inferior and tasteless. I’ll start listening to new music to discover more of what I like.
I hope he thinks I’m interesting. Why do I find him interesting? He makes me want to be less basic. I’ve been doing better recently at being less basic. Branching out into things that actually interest me, not what’s just placed right in front of me.
Spending hours rifling through Goodwill shops, acquiring thrifted pieces of clothing, and curating my closet with different outfits that hold a slight sophistication to them. Incorporating the smallest of details that make me feel far from basic.
Intentional.
I’ve also been working really hard at staying off my phone and choosing to create instead. I gather images on Pinterest to print out, cut, and create collages to accompany my writings. I film myself reading my unedited writing, pushing away my self-doubt and fear of being perceived. Would a basic person do that? I wonder if he has watched those videos. I hope not. The self-doubt and fear of being perceived have not been mastered.
I finish washing the dishes and let my hair down. I get overstimulated if it’s in my face while I’m trying to do something. I think about his hair. On his head and on his body. I’m excited to touch it again. I love the way one strand swoops down and sits on his forehead.
It’s past lunchtime, and I realize I haven’t eaten. I walk into my kitchen and open the fridge. I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s wondering about what I’m doing. I stop in my tracks and rapidly recount my day’s thoughts. It’s happening.
This isn’t sexual. This isn’t romantic. This is a trauma response.
This isn’t sexual. This isn’t romantic. This is agony. This is pain.
This isn’t sexual. This isn’t romantic. This is sabotage. This is self-harm.
This isn’t sexual. This isn’t romantic. This is a pattern that keeps on repeating.
This isn’t sexual. This isn’t romantic. This is an opportunity to dissect what’s wrong with me.
The Fall
Fuck. I’ve been here before. I told myself I wasn’t going to go here. I don’t want to be here. I gotta get out of here. How do I get out of here? It’s fine.
I allow myself some scroll time. The app must have electromagnetic frequencies that have tapped into my brain, since the algorithm is feeding me everything I need to see. The reels fluctuate between psychologists and podcasters sharing their insights on Limerance and ADHD.
How Childhood Neglect Causes Romantic Obsession *This one shot me in the chest and opened the memory vortex (re: The Reflection)
You’re not obsessed with them *I shared this one with my therapist
Okay, great, so, consensus is: I’m fucked. All these videos tell me what’s wrong with me. Where are the ones that tell me how to fix it?
I’ve fallen into limerence enough times; I’m on my way to becoming an expert. I’m highly aware that:
THIS IS NOT ABOUT HIM, THIS IS ABOUT ME
Focus.
I get ready for a work event. I take the elevator down nine floors. I wonder when he’ll text me next. I’ve been very good at not texting first. I don’t need to be doing all of that. I’m not obsessed. I’ll talk to him when he wants to talk to me. I walk to the car and look up as sunlight falls on my face. I go to open my phone to queue music, and as if I had manifested it, his name pops up on my screen.
He sent me a song. So he does listen to music and think about me. At least with this song. Waves of euphoria crash over me. I ride it out with a smile on my face and play it on my car ride, driving along the interstate. The traffic doesn’t bother me like it usually does. I go the speed limit, I usually don’t. I reply and follow up on an earlier invitation to pick a day we can get together.
Hours go by. I wait & anticipate the notification.
…
It’s the next day. I have not heard back. I’m growing anxious.
I walk to the library on my lunch break. I listen to the psychiatrist’s podcast and reflect on the dynamics I had growing up with my parents. I hate thinking about it. It makes me feel broken — like a broken little doll, destined to be dropped by anyone who tries to play with her. I’m being cynical.
You know what? I am going to sit on this concrete bench, look at the changing leaves on the trees, and be cynical. I’m allowed to do that.
I’m noticing how limerence brings up my insecurities and triggers a lot of self-doubt. Let’s play in this. What am I insecure about? How can I work on these things? It’s a process — an ever-evolving game of unlearning. I can also accept my insecurities instead of punishing myself for them. I cannot be a perfect person. Why do I doubt myself? Tiny glimpses of all the times my parents let me down and couldn’t connect with me emotionally flash through my head, but I feel it most in the deep center of my chest.
Hurt.
Everything comes back to childhood trauma.
I’ve spent many years actively healing the little girl who would frequently resurface. I’ve made a lot of progress, and it’s been a while since she’s paid a visit. It’s nice to forget about the past for a bit, and then it’s kind of alarming when it pops back up, and you remember. Oh yeah. Jumpscare.
My break is over, and I head back into the office.
The day goes by. I check my phone. Nothing. My anxiety has anxiety. This is so fucking stupid and annoying.
I write a poem to get some of the crazy outside of myself.
Catharsis.
Has the landline been cut?
Are all mail carriers bedridden,
unable to deliver letters already written,
and they’re just sitting in their sealed envelope, waiting for me?
Or is he taking his time to respond,
because he must craft a message that reads like a philosopher’s poem,
cunning and impressive, for nothing less would do?
I wait, check, and recheck the mail slot,
patiently and impatiently waiting to see if it makes a difference.
It must be coming soon.
And oh, the rush of relief when it does come.
God, I hate this.
You’re fucking crazy, and everyone can see it.
Your pen is poison, scaring off the wise men
who are smart enough not to be immortalized by my script.
Dramatic ass.
Right on queue, his name pops up. My lungs can release.
We made a date for tomorrow night.
I gotta finish the writing about our date that I’ve been working on for him. For him? I started out writing it for me. Fuck. It’s for both of us now. Stupid.
I write.
It’s the next day. I go to the office. I write more.
I have transferable hours from the event on Monday. I leave work early. I want plenty of time to perform my pre-sex ritual. I didn’t get to do that for the first time with him.
I run a warm bath. I spent the next hour exfoliating every dead skin cell off my body. Shaving and sculpting the hair that doesn’t grow on my head. Lathering on vanilla body scrub, then vanilla body wash. Shampooing and scrubbing my scalp. Conditioning. Detangling. Moisturizing. Cocobutter lotion. French perfume. Precise makeup.
A cropped, black knit sweater with no bra underneath. He’ll like that. Jeans that hug my ass and show off my tiny waist. I don’t know if he prefers me in skirts or pants. I’ll ask him.
I just want to be the most appealing that I can be. Is that so wrong? I would love for someone to put in as much thought and excruciating detail into their appearance for me as I do. It’s sexy. I always notice. Do others notice? It doesn’t matter. This is for me.
I should’ve styled my hair instead of wearing it natural. I don’t like how messy it looks. I’ll do it differently next time…if he wants to see me again.
I go to my writing group. I write something meaningful. It doesn’t include him.
I drive to his place and pick up wine on the way.
I walk into his house. The music was too loud, and the lights were too bright. It throws me off. We pop the bottle of sparkling rosé under the full moon while we manifest our dreams. (My idea. Cute, right?)
The night goes on.
He asks me if I would like to eat some food.
All I’ve consumed today is:
150 mg of Wellbutrin
20 mg of ER Adderall
15 mg of Buspar
collagen + biotin supplements
one chocolate croissant
a cortado
handful of nuts
10 mg of IR Adderall
2 glasses of wine
I laugh. That’s not a part of the pre-sex routine, but he doesn’t know that. Doesn’t need to know that. My disordered eating is no one’s business except for mine and whoever reads when I write about it. (Apologies for writing about it. I know it’s not good. It’s a part of my experience, though. I’m working on it.)
It doesn’t matter. I tell him, ‘No, thank you.’
We talk. We laugh. We listen to music. We read each other’s writings. He is just a guy. A flawed human, like everyone else. He is not God. Though there are pretty bruises on both my shins from kneeling.
The chains of limerence have been broken.
I wrote on the white blanks of the page in between printed paragraphs:
You look like such a lost little girl in this light.
So fragile.
Where has your focus gone?
Out the window with your sense of self.
Better hurry up and jump out after it
before it goes ‘Splat!’ on the concrete.
Reach out, it’s so close…
right in front of you.
Come on, you got it!
Hold on tight to it
as you fall through the atmosphere
& crash land back into reality.
The Crash
We have sex. We finish. We crash. I lie my head and hand on his chest as my heavy breath slows.
I’m not satiated. I want something else. Something other than what I originally sought after.
Love.
Oh no. I feel hollow. I could cry, but I don’t. I fall asleep on top of him.
I wake up at 5 am. Find my clothes in the dark, pick them off the floor, and put them on. I look for the shirt I left the last time I was here. I don’t know where it is. Fuck it. I’m so hungry. I don’t know what to say when I leave. I awkwardly stand over his sleeping body for a couple of minutes while I try to think of something to say. I come up with nothing. I wake him up. “Bye,” I kiss him. He kisses me more. I don’t know what to say. “Bye.”
I walk outside. There is frost on the car windows. I get in my car and turn on the heat.
It hits me. You did it again.
I live in a perpetual state of longing, riding a loop that shocks me every time it leads me back to where I’ve ended up before. In cautious thoughts, I remembered how painful falling into limerence is, but I did not recall the impact of the crash — that hard, bone-crushing smack from soaring several stories down.
I drive home through the fog and play the song “Hard” by Hayley Williams on repeat.
I go to work. I feel sad all day. Silly girl, you forgot that you can’t drink two days in a row, you’re on antidepressants.
I journal: I hate that I’m like this. I get so wrapped up in my head, then when things don’t fit right in with my perfect fantasies, I crumble like a child that was falsely promised a cookie.
My two friends come over that night. We cut prints that I spent hours picking out and sizing. We eat bread, cheese, popcorn, and pizza rolls. I’m so fucking hungry. They listen to me vent. They put things into perspective. They hold space for my tears. They make me laugh hard. They’re so funny.
I’ll be fine.
The Reflection
Most of my life, I’ve had a complicated relationship with my parents, as most people do. Though there are some people I’ve met who speak of their parents as if they love them, like truly love them. Of course, I love my parents and I’m thankful for everything they’ve done for me, but those things do not negate the fact that they did a great deal of damage to me.
My brain has blocked most of my childhood out, protecting myself from whatever was deemed necessary. However, there are moments that I remember clearly.
There are only so many times that my parents broke my heart before I solemnly realized that they would not be a part of mending it. I mastered the lesson in between the lines of recognizing ‘This shouldn’t be happening.’
Fathers shouldn’t drive drunk with their kids in the car.
Mothers shouldn’t make their daughters count their calories.
Step-fathers shouldn’t drunkenly tell their step-daughter that she needs the shit smacked out of her and to cut herself.
I knew these things were objectively wrong, but it’s mind-melting when the people who were supposed to love and protect me insisted that I’m too sensitive and need to accept the apology flowers, understand they didn’t mean it because they were drunk, and be grateful for my skinnier body.
I learned that there was nothing that I could do to earn the love that I needed when it mattered the most. No matter the grades on my report cards, church services attended, or the lowering number on the scale, the love was conditional. A pendulum of manipulative love downpours and emotional neglect.
My calves grew solid from walking on my tiptoes in ballet tech classes and on eggshells at home. The crashouts, calm lulls, and instability cycles were expected, but still stung every time, until one day they didn’t. I couldn’t let it anymore.
I saved up the money I made from serving ice cream on roller skates, moved out at 18, and have been living on my own ever since. I made peace with the circumstances, regulated my tattered nervous system, and untangled myself from the web I was born into and subsequently kept spinning myself in.
So knowing what I know, why do I keep falling into these mental traps that trigger a need to fight for the love I never received?
No matter the music I listen to, the outfits I wear, or how good I am in bed, the lesson still applies.
I cannot earn love. I cannot prove my worth.
It exists within me, whether it’s recognized by another or not.
There does not need to be a show, performance, or test I must pass.
I must recognize the heart of the self.
I can only look at my own reflection in the mirror.
Gouging my eyes out to try to see myself through another’s vision will only make me blind.
I want to see the world around me, people, relationships, situations, in the colors they truly are.
Let me get lost in the kaleidoscope shades between the black-and-white views of survival.
The Return
I contract, expand, & flow in the 122-degree wood-paneled hot box. My slowed thoughts are on the position of my chest, the stretch through my side, & the squaring of my hips. I watch the sleek shine of my legs drip with streams of salty sweat. A much-needed release. The infrared energy surrounds me, swaddles me like a mother’s womb.
With my head hovering over my contorted leg, a full, heavy exhale exits my lungs.
My breath comes back to me. I am mine again. At least in this moment.
I go home. My clothes hit the floor.
The Reveal
I run a bath and retrieve my special toys from my underwear drawer. I plan to watch/read porn on Tumblr and Reddit, hoping to gain some inspiration for the next time we have sex.
I scroll for a few minutes. Nothing interests me. I stare at the ceiling while the warm water swells around my sore body. I feel exhausted. Slightly empty, but somehow every time I close my eyes to rest my weary little mind, the typewriter hardwired in my brain starts a new line.
I pull out my notes app and write:
Beyond my wildest kinks and BDSM scene fantasies,
the breathless desire that aches within me is
to be wanted.
to be seen.
to be known.
For one to be in love with
my intellect, my heart,
& the little things about me,
like the cadence of my speech
and the writings in my head.
—
No matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I try, I’m coming to the conclusion that perhaps I can’t do casual. Is there really anything casual about intertwining your body, your energy, with another?
I don’t think it’s wrong for me to crave love, but the way I tend to go about it is obviously catastrophic.
Limerence is a rabbit hole that I don’t want to keep going down.
If I have to go down a rabbit hole, I want it to be one of those cozy little nooks from storybooks where I’m safe and sound. Knitting, cooking, and baking in my little kitchen, reading.
I’ve spent the last two years actively trying to decenter men. I’m a lot better than I used to be, but I still have my moments. I could blame my parents. I could blame society. I could blame myself. I could blame it on all three. Assigning blame doesn’t fix much, though. I’m a big fixer.
I’m always self-awarely scanning my personality for what to fix next. Ascension, enlightenment, higher self—the goals. Reflection, breaking cycles, growing—the fixes. I could check off a hundred boxes, but then I would just create another hundred. There will always be more to fix.
For the past couple of weeks, I had been passively indulging in restrictive eating tendencies, almost unconsciously, and not acknowledging it for what it was.
While writing this piece, I became increasingly judgmental of my experience and the writing itself. I entered a mode that I can only describe as punishment.
One day, I typed, deleted, and reorganized for four hours straight. Writing usually always makes me feel better, but with this topic, that has not been the case. I stood up and felt a pang of hunger in my stomach.
An old, familiar voice in my head whispered, ‘You do not deserve to eat.’ In recovery, I train my brain to block out ED noise. Let the thought pass without hearing it out.
That day, I listened.
The following couple of days were loud.
Then it was the weekend. But the weekend isn’t the weekend for me. My weekends belong to working at the winery. I spend the mornings cooking brunch and the evenings making charcuterie boards; meanwhile, I can barely bring myself to eat.
I spent time washing dishes and coming to terms with the hell I’d been putting myself through. I realized how mean I was being to myself. I acknowledged that I had relapsed in my eating disorder, and that is not a path I want to continue to go down.
I don’t have therapy till next week.
I ask ChatGPT for advice. (Awful, I know. Bite me. I’ve talked in circles to my friends. They deserve a break.)
Chat actually gives me some really fucking good perspectives lol.
I take a week to step away.
__
I don’t get this way with women. My love for women feels pure, whole, and just right. Men? I might as well rip out my own stomach. For why? I’ve been traumatized. I need this trauma OUT of MY fucking BODY. What do I need to do? Do I simply need to sit in the stillness and silence of my being? Do I need to hold myself gently? Do I need to roll around screaming on the floor?
Realistically, I think I’m just going to do EMDR therapy.
I look back and see how much I’ve grown in the last 2 years, 4 years, 6 years. Incredible. I cannot wait until I can look back on this period in time and feel so far removed.
Again, it’s a process.
I’ve been at war with myself trying to determine whether I should post this or not. Listing out the ramifications of this kind of brutal vulnerability. I’ve thought about them all.
I reread and reread and reread this through the eyes of my friends, coworkers, future employers, family members, the guy that I wrote about, my ex-girlfriend, and future love interests.
You might think, “She’s…fucked in the head.”
Yeah. Yeah, sometimes I am.
I know sometimes you must feel that way.
That your thoughts and feelings don’t always make the most logical sense. How you can’t help but think about the same things over and over again? The “why did I do that?”s. The parts of yourself that would cower back into the shadows if a light were shone upon them.
I can’t rewrite my past. I can write while I heal from it.
Because while I see a broken record of a mentally warped disaster, I also see a beautiful, passionate sweetheart who cares so ruthlessly, so deeply.
And what a lover she will be to the right person one day.
For now, I have to be my own lover girl. Obsessed with living as softly and violently as I sway. Kissing my own shoulder, getting to know every inch of my soul, recognizing my patterns, and adoring the little things that I notice. That I care about.
The Caution, The Slip, The Fall, The Crash, The Reflection, The Reveal. I went through it. Wrote through it.
Where does that leave me?
It leaves me to do The Work.
Limerence is just another fractal mirror of the inner workings of my brain. While it takes its time being all-consuming, it goes far beyond the surface into territories I must chart.
I start EMDR therapy next week.
The biggest thing that has come from A WRITER IN LIMERENCE is my reminder that I have a lot of inner child work to do. Repression is a band-aid. I need to heal the source.
Written at a Writings From Her Corner session:
I am scared to share this side of myself with real-life people I know, to let them read this messy, flawed, intimate state I describe. I’d quite literally rather strip down naked.
I am scared because I hate who I become in the state of limerence.
I hate who I become in that state, because I hate what made me that way.
I hate remembering what happened to the little girl that lives inside of me.
I feel rage for her.
I want to protect her.
I say I’ve made peace with what I’ve been through,
but what if that’s not fully true?
Because sometimes she takes hold of me.
She feels unlovable.
She reads off narratives that aren’t based in reality.
She is alone.
But I’m still here.
I love her.
I’ll listen to her stories and let her watch me live out new ones.
She isn’t alone.
But I don’t know if I can share this.
…
What I Want For Her
I want her to feel safe.
I want her to feel celebrated.
I want her to laugh. For her belly to hurt, laugh. To snort.
To play dress-up and make-believe.
To be bossy, like her friends always called her, directing actions in games at recess.
I want her to know that someone always has her back, unconditionally.
She doesn’t need to love Jesus. I don’t care how much she weighs, how much she eats.
She can sing loudly off-key, and I won’t yell at her when she cries.
She can stay on the swing-set for as long as she wants and live in her soft pajamas.
I’ll read her favorite books with her and buy her those sparkly stickers she likes.
I won’t ignore her. I won’t punish her for feeling emotions.
I want her to come out when she needs to.
To tell me when she’s scared, sad, or just wants to play.
I want her to believe that her sunshine has not been taken away.
Writing this piece has taken a lot out of me.
I’m letting it go.
- E.M.
so glad to see the finished piece in the world!!!