Dear Emma:

I’m not very focused at the moment and didn’t get to read everything in your most recent post—so I’ll just respond to a few parts, quoting them and offering some thoughts:

“Thank you for being here, Anita, it means a lot.”- And thank you, Emma, for being here. It means a lot to me too 🙂

“But what do you think has made him feel most unsafe? Would it have been the hot-cold, or me calling him ‘disrespectful’ and ‘very judgmental’ in that discussion?”- It might have been those things—but I wonder if what felt most unsafe was the moment you contacted him after he blocked you, and when you showed up at his building uninvited. That could have crossed a boundary he wasn’t prepared to navigate.

“So…you think it may not automatically be he does not like me at all, anymore?”- I truly can’t imagine anyone not liking you, Emma. You’re thoughtful, sensitive, and always trying to understand—qualities that I admire!

“That sounds tough as well, your mother constantly doubting your words—it sounds like she was afraid you would criticize her while you were not at all!”- That’s very perceptive—and honestly, I hadn’t thought of it that way until you said it. She really was afraid of being criticized, even when I wasn’t criticizing her. Thank you for helping me see that.

“Oh, if I may ask, was your self-hate based on anything that had happened before, or something your parents said or so?”- Yes, mostly things my mother said—over and over, in ways that settled deep inside. I only have one memory of my father before he left, when I was about five or six. Neither of them seemed to think or feel much about me emotionally. I wasn’t even an afterthought.

“He also seemed afraid women would take advantage of him—it was a theme in many stories he told me.”- That recurring fear of being taken advantage of—especially by women—makes me worry even more about the chance of him reconnecting with you. 😔 It’s not your fault, and not something you can fix, but it does shape how he sees closeness.

This weekend will be busy for me, and I may not have much time or energy to write until Monday. It’s possible I’ll check in sooner, but I’m not sure yet.

You’re welcome to reply to what I’ve written here—maybe just a short note so I can respond a little. I’m looking forward to talking more next week. Please take good care of yourself until then.

Warmly, Anita 🤍

Dear Emma:

I want to begin by saying how much strength I see in you. The fact that you’re still reflecting, still feeling, still reaching for understanding—that’s not weakness. That’s courage. And even though this part of the journey hurts, the way you’re walking through it tells me you’re already growing. You’re not broken—you’re becoming.

You wrote: “I don’t want to lose these thoughts, cause they are all I have of him.”-

In ROCD—and in heartbreak generally—the mind often becomes the keeper of memory when the heart is still reaching. Your thoughts are acting like quiet memorials, helping you stay close to something that mattered. That makes sense. You’re not obsessing because you’re irrational—you’re doing what humans do when they’re hurting and don’t want to say goodbye.

Later, you asked: “What do you think he will be thinking of me? I guess I’m asking to think of what chances I still have left… none I guess.”-

Sometimes couples do find each other again after a breakup, when something shifts and reconnection becomes possible. But in Philip’s case, the way he responded—the words he used, the emotion behind them—suggests he’s protecting a very strong boundary right now. As hard as it is to hear, reactions like that often mean someone doesn’t feel safe re-engaging, even if their feelings are mixed.

That doesn’t mean you didn’t matter. You did. The connection, the long calls, the closeness—they were real. But not all real things are meant to last. Sometimes love teaches us through departure.

His thoughts are not the only mirror of your worth, Emma. You are not defined by his silence or his rejection. You are still becoming—still discovering who you are when you’re not wrapped around someone else.

You asked if I’ve ever felt similar regret. What comes to mind is something from high school. I used to fantasize endlessly about a boy in my class named Robert. I’d never had a boyfriend, never kissed anyone, never dated. One night after a youth group meeting, he offered to walk me home so I wouldn’t be alone in the dark. It was my first chance to be alone with him—and I said “no.” Not because I didn’t want to, but because fear took over. And afterwards, the part of me that had dreamed of that moment deeply regretted saying no.

You asked about my mother—whether she doubted me to help me improve. The truth is, I don’t remember her wanting me to improve. What I remember is her punishing me for thinking “wrong,” feeling “wrong,” doing “wrong.” If I said nothing, she’d accuse me of thinking something she disapproved of, just from my facial expression. If I spoke, she’d dissect my words—pointing out contradictions with things I’d said days, months, even years earlier. The voice in my head still echoes her sometimes: You thought this wrong. You weren’t exact. Make it exact. Make it uncriticizable. But like I said—it’s getting softer.

And back to you again, Emma. You wrote: “I hate myself for breaking up with him.”-

Please don’t meet your pain with hate. Meet it with compassion. You were afraid, overwhelmed, trying to protect something inside you. You didn’t fail. You responded with the tools you had at the time. Hate will deepen the wound. Compassion makes room for healing. It truly changes everything.

I’ve carried self-hate and rejection for years. But the shift toward self-compassion—still relatively recent—is making all the difference in my life. If I could go back to that night with Robert, things might have unfolded differently. Back then, I didn’t like myself. I thought, If he walks me home, he’ll find out how unacceptable I am. So I said no.

But if I had thought well of myself—if I’d liked myself—I might’ve thought, Maybe Robert will like me too. And I would have said yes.

It’s never too late to say yes to ourselves, Emma. Start there. Gently.

I’m here with you.

Warmly, Anita 🤍

“No analysis. No conclusion. Just the afterglow of being fully present, of having held paradox without collapsing into certainty.”-

Relaxing into Uncertainty.

No longer trying to (like you say, Peter)- measure, label, name.. fix.

There’s freedom in it, a lightening of the weight.

I take air in, relax. Nothing to do. No one to convince. No one to impress.

Nothing to fix, nothing to figure out, nothing to do.

Nothing but to be.

From analysis to no-lysis.

Just be. Sh.. time to rest. Let go of the tension…

Nothing to run after, nothing to run away from.

Surrender- not to any one person, not to any ideology, any one politics- but to the timeless reality of something out there, something within, independent of all that mattered so much before.

A transcending.

Anita

And the way you ended your post: “So, scream. If it comes, let it come. Not as a symptom but as a signal that you are alive, unhidden, and unwilling to mute what is most vital. Even the soul needs a sound sometimes. Let it be wild. Let it be true. Let it be yours. The sound and mirror of AUM.”-

I never read anything more meaningful, more personal, more… These are your words, spoken to me, for me…(This is making me emotional).

No, NO, out of the parenthesis- A scream: thank you for being here with me!

Anita

Dear Emma, I’ll be back at the computer in a few hours to read your message carefully and reply with the attention it deserves 🤍

Anita