Sorry (typing on my phone), I meant: You are welcome,L a v e n 😉

Dear Emma:

My hand is all better now—good as new. The stinging lasted a few hours and then disappeared completely. But it made me think about how some wounds don’t heal that easily.

When a nettle touches the skin, it leaves behind tiny hollow needles that pierce the surface and release a chemical mix. It causes a sharp, itchy, burning sensation, almost like a temporary neural injury.

Emotional wounds—especially the ones we carry from childhood—aren’t like that. When someone is deeply hurt early in life by judgment, neglect, or criticism, the pain doesn’t just disappear. It lives in the nervous system, in the expectations we place on others, and in how we love. And we can’t become “good as new.” Not quite.

But we can find healing. For me, expressing those childhood wounds through journaling made a real difference. Writing—slowly, over time—helped release decades of hurt I had pushed down. The pain isn’t gone completely, but the intensity is no longer what it was. The old hurt doesn’t leap into the present anymore, doesn’t hijack my interactions or confuse my relationships. Everything feels simpler now. Clearer. Easier to meet life as it is.

That kind of expression can be overwhelming, though. Sometimes it’s too much to hold alone, which is why therapy—or the right person to listen—can help. And even then, it’s not about pouring it all out at once. It’s about letting just a little of it come to the surface at a time, and honoring what comes.

If you ever feel like sharing more of your story on your thread, I’ll be there to read with care. Only if you feel safe doing so, of course. And only in the rhythm that feels right to you.

You wrote: “I need to let go of hope. I wonder if I should start meeting new men, or maybe take the time to grieve this loss.”-

Meeting new men before grieving may lead to recreating the same pain in a new form. The story recycles itself—not because we want it to, but because the original wound hasn’t been given enough breath, enough space, to find peace. Grieving doesn’t have to be loud or dramatic. It can just be letting a little bit out at a time. Even that can be a kind of healing.

You wrote: “It really felt like I was hiding part of myself like with my family… I really liked his intense nature, I always liked those types.”- That made me wonder—maybe it’s your own intensity that’s been hidden or pushed down for so long, and that’s part of why his intensity felt so magnetic. It’s not just that you admired it in him—it might be that his boldness reminded you of a part of yourself that’s still waiting for permission to be seen, heard, and expressed.

Maybe what you were drawn to most was the reflection of something powerful and alive in you.

I want to close this post with saying how much I admire your ability to look inward with such honesty. The way you reflect, question, and stay open to understanding yourself more deeply—it’s a rare and beautiful quality. You’re not just moving through this experience… you’re learning from it, shaping it into meaning, even through the pain. That kind of self-awareness is what makes healing possible.

I hope you keep being gentle with yourself through it all. And I hope you know—you don’t have to rush the process. You’re already doing the work, step by step, in exactly your own way.

With warmth and care, Anita

Dear Sue:

You’re so welcome—and thank you for your kind words. I’m really glad my message helped in some way.

You said something that stayed with me: “I still love him, and acceptance means I’m not fighting for him.” That’s such a powerful truth. When we love someone deeply, acceptance can feel like surrender. But sometimes, what keeps the pain alive is the fight itself—the part of us still holding onto who he used to be.

When someone we love changes so drastically—like Victor becoming almost a different person—it’s not just the relationship we lose. It’s the whole story we’ve been living: the memories, the roles we played, the “we” that once felt safe. And when that happens, it’s natural to hold tightly to the version of him we once knew: the familiar partner, the father of your children, the man who once said “us.”

So the fight—reaching out, hoping, replaying the past—isn’t just about wanting him back. It’s about not wanting to let go of that old version of him. And accepting that he’s no longer that person feels heartbreaking—like letting go of someone you still love.

But that same fight, even though it’s human, keeps reopening the hurt. Every time he doesn’t respond, every cold silence, every reminder of how he’s changed—it hurts all over again. In a way, the hope itself becomes a new kind of pain.

Your mention of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind really landed. That movie is about two people who try to erase their memories of a painful relationship. But even as the memories fade, the longing remains. The movie isn’t really about forgetting—it’s about how deeply love shapes us. It reminds me of what you’re feeling: the desire to stop hurting, and also the fear of what you’d lose if the feelings truly went away.

When you said, “I want to ask my psychiatrist for a pill that won’t get me high but make me feel nothing,” I heard that so clearly. The longing to just pause the pain, even for a moment. Some medications like SSRIs can help ease the sharpest edges—but sometimes, they also dull the joy and connection, not just the sadness. That can be a hard trade-off.

There are options worth exploring—like bupropion—which tend to cause less of that emotional numbness. It’s something your psychiatrist might talk through with you. But even just being able to say what you said here—“I’m in pain. I need relief”—is strong and brave. That honesty matters.

And those letters you’ve been writing to Victor but not sending? That, too, is radical acceptance. It’s you honoring your truth without depending on his response. That’s healing work, even if it’s quiet and hard.

You are not alone—not in your pain, not in your love, not in your anger or grief. You’re doing the invisible work of surviving something that was never supposed to happen. And it matters.

With care and respect, Anita

I wish I could hear/ read more from you, Sophie. I wish we could talk more.

Anita

Dear Emma:

After sending you my last message, I was driving to the farm when something struck me. You mentioned that Philip could be judgmental—and that it was something you didn’t like. But as I thought more about it, I wondered: if you grew up with a judgmental parent, then a partner with similar traits might hold a strange kind of emotional pull.

Not because it feels good—but because it holds a deep hope, something like: maybe this time, I’ll be the exception. Maybe this person will finally give me the full acceptance I longed for growing up. It becomes a quiet wish to rewrite the old story—by winning over someone who reminds you of the one you couldn’t reach. It’s like trying to heal an old wound in a new way.

And often, when someone is already kind and accepting from the start… they don’t spark that same emotional charge. Because there’s no struggle. No uphill climb to earn love.

That thought came to me before I even read your latest messages, where you wrote: “He reminded me of my father and brother: my father being bossy and forceful at times, telling me I should not be so dreamy/absent minded … I do think I could see through his shell, and saw his softness on the inside… They say you look for someone who is like your father (as a girl).”-

He reminded you of your father—bossy, judgmental—and that might have been part of the appeal. Maybe what drew you to him was the chance to finally reach the softness you never got from your father. A second chance at something unfinished.

About why I said I don’t think he was compatible with you—it’s because he talked too much about himself, didn’t ask you questions about you, and was judgmental toward your innocent, lovely ways of being. The dynamic I mentioned above—trying to rewrite a parental story within a romantic relationship—doesn’t build compatibility. It tends to create intensity, emotional upheaval, and often, disappointment.

I just read the last sentence in your third post: “I must say have a tendency for limerence too – I do believe it is connected.”- yes, I believe it is connected. Limerence often involves intense infatuation with someone who feels emotionally just out of reach—someone who may be inconsistent, distant, in ways that create emotional hunger and longing. That dynamic can feel magnetic for someone whose parental and other early experiences of love were shaped by conditional approval, criticism, or the need to “earn” warmth from a parent.

So if your father was bossy and judgmental—it’s very possible that a person like Philip, who mirrored some of those same traits, lit up something familiar and unfinished in your emotional world. The hope, often unconscious, is: maybe I can finally win over this version of my father. That “winning over” becomes the emotional thrill of limerence.

In other words: the more emotionally unavailable or critical the person is, the more it triggers the old script—the quest for love, validation, and proof of worth. It’s not just attraction, it’s an emotional reenactment. And limerence, with all its highs and lows, can feel intoxicating because it mimics that unpredictable search for acceptance she may have experienced growing up.

Does all this sound true to you?

Your work at the bookstore sounds like such a perfect fit for you, and your dressing up for Renaissance Fairs and eccentric clothing —sound absolutely lovely.

As for my day, I did a lot of mowing out on the big farm and spent some time cutting back blackberries. Unfortunately, while doing that, a stinging nettle brushed against my hand… and now it itches, burns, and tingles 😞

Anita