Push & Pull: The Toxicity of an Imbalanced Relationship

Push & Pull: The Toxicity of an Imbalanced Relationship

14 October 2025

Trigger warning: mentions of drug usage and sexuality.

When I’m alone for too long, my chest feels hollow—a consequence of forsaking someone who once filled that space with relief. I mistakenly called this sentiment love. I’d say, “Goodbye, I need some space,” only to return months later, when my heart felt ready again. This cycle repeated itself more times than I’d care to admit—so many, in fact, that I couldn’t give you a number if I tried. Sometimes, while re-reading our old messages, a familiar ache would bloom in my stomach—a longing I could never quite resist.

When the loneliness became unbearable, I’d reach out again. Every time I sent that “I miss you and I can’t stop thinking about you” message, he was there—always there—with a reply just hours later. In truth, I think I used him as a balm for the emptiness I refused to face. Recently, I found myself wanting him again, longing for that turbulent connection again, and I grappled with the idea for several nights. 

The last we spoke, I was adamant that it would be our final goodbye. I couldn’t keep hurting him, not when I knew how he felt about me. His affection ran deeper than mine ever could, and for the longest time, I kept him within arm’s reach—close enough to soothe me, but far enough to keep him waiting. 

When I finally looked inward, I saw it clearly: my urge to reach out again was selfish, toxic even. To call him would mean wounding us both—perhaps him most of all. 

So I let go. But before I did, I allowed myself to feel it—just for a moment. To reminisce. My mind, clouded by the marijuana-infused edible I’d taken that night (don’t worry, it’s legal in my state), began to crave his attention more than ever. Not too far gone, I reminded myself that the push-and-pull dynamic between us was unhealthy—that it hurt far more than it healed. 

I’d written a couple of poems about him, and—upon re-reading them that night—I was reminded of how immensely harmful what we had truly was. If you can even call it a relationship. I’m still not sure what to name it; we weren’t just friends, not quite lovers, and not solely intimate. We hovered in between—suspended in a constant state of anxiety toward each other. 

I pushed him away only to come back again—to feel something, perhaps, to escape the forlorn loneliness that had long resided in the prison of my own heart.

The push-and-pull cycle became a strange kind of security for me. The push came whenever things grew too heavy or too serious—when distance felt safer than vulnerability. There was a certain relief in leaving, a weight lifted from my shoulders. Then, months later, the pull would return—loneliness settling in my chest until it became intolerable. There was almost a shameful high in the reunion, a euphoric rush that convinced me it was the truest of all affections.

I was in control of when he re-entered my life. I held the wheel the entire time, steering us in and out of the trenches.

But eventually, it occurred to me that the comfort I felt upon reunion was an illusion. The familiarity of chaos masqueraded as connection. I discovered—perhaps too late—that it was me. Yet, in truth, we both played a part. He lacked the self-respect to set boundaries—to tell me that my inconsistency was hurting him. And I—fully aware of it—chose to ignore that truth every time I came and went. I had done this, to both him and myself. And I needed to take accountability for that if I ever wanted to heal.

This tortured reminiscence made me question myself for the first time. Why do I yearn for what breaks me?

So, to answer that, I had to go back to my earliest memories. I grew up in a family that didn’t often prioritize communication. When arguments erupted—or on rare occasions, even physical altercations—the aftermath was still. We’d distance ourselves until the tension dissolved, then reunite as if nothing had happened. And once we did, the situation was brushed under the rug—forgotten and suppressed.

Over time, I learned that there was safety in pushing things down—that avoidance could form under the guise of peace. 

Unknowingly, I carried these habits into my adult relationships, both platonic and romantic. It still takes me time to fully open up to someone; silence feels safer, more predictable. I tend to bury my anxieties deep within me, much like a rabbit burrowing into the earth, hiding from the dangers that prowl beyond its den.

This repetitive behavior turned people away. They called me intimidating and cold. Maybe I was. Maybe I still am. But at least now, I understand why. 

It wasn’t until a few nights ago that I came to this realization. As a woman in her early twenties, it’s a little embarrassing to admit that it took me this long to see it clearly. I carried the quiet ache of knowing I’d been behaving in a way that was deeply toxic. I cried until I couldn’t anymore—until my body whispered tenderly that I had no tears left.

I realized that I never truly wanted pain—for him, for me—I only mistook it for passion, for affection. A fondness that felt like twin flame energy, but wasn’t. I acted on the false patterns of love I had only ever known. It’s no excuse, but this recognition is the first step toward healing. So that, when I do meet my person, I can let them in—in a way that’s healthy for us both. 

I’ll be searching for a love balanced in boundaries, consistency, and accountability—only once I’m healed enough to give it. I imagine someone who sees my anxieties and doesn’t run from them, someone who supports me on my healing journey. Perhaps that leans more toward attachment than love, but I hope this person will bring out my truest self—the one who unapologetically expresses her passions and speaks at length while her partner listens with a sweet, genuine smile.

I know now that love doesn’t need to be messy in order to be true. It doesn’t need chaos to feel alive, nor absence to feel valued. Healing is slow, and it will take time to unlearn the patterns I’ve carried for most of my life, but I’m ready and willing to try. 

And one day, when I meet someone who truly complements my heart, I hope to recognize them not because they complete me, but because we can grow together—safely and blissfully. Until then, I’m learning to sit with my heart, to loosen its locked bolts with self-compassion, and to trust that I am enough to heal my own wounds.