It was revelatory. After months of excruciating self-reflection that, at times, saw me in my local park hysterically crying like a banshee, I discovered that absolutely none of my behaviour had been the result of some curse placed upon me at birth. My choices of men were a form of self-sabotage. I went after those who were chronically unavailable to me, and ran from those who weren’t. Either way, I ensured that I was the one who remained unavailable. Through therapy, I began to chart my catalogue of unhealthy behaviours from under-eating and then bingeing, to regularly drinking to excess. They all stemmed from the same place: a pathological fear of my feelings. Instead of confronting the emptiness I felt inside, I had learnt to numb the sadness and fear by fixating on restricting food or dulling my senses with alcohol or Netflix. Attachment theory is talked about a lot nowadays, and it transpired I was a textbook fearful avoidant: anxious for love and affection, yet also terrified of it.
