I’m celebrating no contact after ending things with the person I was seeing… let’s call him Bill. I’m also celebrating one week of resisting the urge to distract myself with new romantic side quests. Not that there is anything wrong with that…
Unfortunately, I have a history of falling into the trap of coping with the loss of a relationship by trying to numb the emotional pain and loneliness, find comfort, and restore my confidence by immediately looking to replace that person. That might look like seeking attention, going on dating apps, reaching out to an ex, or getting freaky with someone else.
There’s something that happens in our brains and bodies when a connection ends. When we’re building emotional and physical intimacy, our brains release chemicals like dopamine and oxytocin. When that relationship ends—however long or brief—we can experience something that feels a lot like withdrawal, including cravings, physical discomfort, a flood of cortisol, and disruptions to sleep and appetite.
We also start to encode that person into our daily lives through regular physical contact, texts, calls, routines, and habits. When they’re suddenly no longer there, our brains can continue to act as if they are, resulting in intrusive thoughts, memories, and urges to return to familiar patterns.
In this case, I had the urge to replace Bill with an ex. I reached out to the person I was seeing before Bill… let’s call him Reed.
A week before I ended things with Bill, I went to my friend’s baby shower at this vibey Mexican restaurant in Boston, where I proceeded to consume three very strong dirty martinis. While I was still holding out hope that Bill would make the changes I needed to see, I knew things probably weren’t going to work out. In my drunken state, I called Reed.
Reed and I hadn’t been dating for several months. I called to reminisce about our time in Boston, but really, I called to see if he was still thinking about me—to see if he still cared. To soothe my disappointment with Bill, I went back to something familiar. If Reed still cared, then maybe that would mean I was someone worth missing and caring about. (I know—that’s an irrational thought.)
This little rendezvous call may or may not have turned into phone sex…
Fast forward another week. It’s the night of the wedding, a couple of days after ending things with Bill, and I text Reed to see if he was around for a 9 p.m. “hello.” He responded that he was tired and going to bed.
I was immediately disappointed and internalized his rejection of my proposition.
After shedding more tears, I realized that going backward was not my answer. I know things will never work with Reed, but he is familiar, and I wanted to distract myself. I kept convincing myself that if I was in control of our interactions, it wouldn’t affect me like it used to.
The truth is, thoughts of both Bill and Reed were a comfort of sorts. The more I entertained them—in the flesh, in my thoughts, in my fantasies—the more I strengthened those neural pathways. Boy do I like to fantasize about them with my little buzzy friend!
I know the kind of partnerships I want and deserve, and I’m proud of myself for eventually coming to the decision to choose myself.
This week has consisted of prioritizing time with friends, school, work, and hobbies. When thoughts of Bill or Reed come up, I acknowledge them for what they are: a habit. I thank them for the reminder, and I remind myself why we’re moving on.
Fuck, it’s hard.
My relationships with both Bill and Reed, and many others, are representative of a relational pattern I find myself drawn back to. More to come on Bill and Reed…
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