intimacy issues don’t wait politely for the bedroom—they crash my lunch every damn day. yesterday i stood in my kitchen eating cold pepperoni pizza straight from the box, sunlight stripey through the blinds (austin pretending winter exists), and one stupid instagram story later my chest caved in like someone sucker-punched me. two seconds earlier i felt totally normal. my brain flipped the kill switch. body just obeyed.
the night i ghosted a guy while his tongue was literally in my mouth
j tasted like cedar and that good coffee he brews too strong. we made out on my couch like the world was ending and honestly it felt perfect. then my brain whispered, “he’s faking it.” i froze. i mumbled some bullshit about feeding a cat i don’t own and bolted to the kitchen to “get water.” i stood there staring at the faucet for five minutes. intimacy issues: 1, me: absolute clown.
the spiral i run on repeat (somebody stop me)
tiny trigger hits → brain screams “HE’LL LEAVE YOU” → i pull away first so i control the leaving → body shuts the whole operation down → partner stares at me confused → i lock myself in the bathroom and fake-pee for half an episode of love island → cycle complete, hate myself extra today.
shit that actually moved the needle (when i quit acting like a toddler)
- i started blurting the stupid thought out loud. “hey my brain currently convinces me you secretly hate me, cool if we just watch great british bake off?” kills the vibe for exactly seven minutes then somehow makes everything ten times hotter. don’t ask me how.
- we literally schedule cuddle blocks in the calendar like sociopaths. 8:30-8:50 “cuddle only, clothes stay on.” works better than oysters and cheap lingerie combined.
- i write the intrusive thought on a sticky note, read it back in a cartoon voice, and laugh at how dumb it sounds. brain hates that.
update from the chaos factory (me)
friday night j slid his hand under my shirt and my brain went “he’s judging your stomach” and i actually cackled out loud because who even thinks that. then i cried. then we ordered al pastor tacos and i snot-cried into his hoodie that smells like home depot. intimacy issues still crash the party uninvited, but now i hand them a drink and keep dancing sometimes.
if you’re reading this at 2 a.m. eating lucky charms with a fork because every spoon betrayed you, breathe. your brain just runs windows vista in 2025. we’ll patch it eventually.
drop your worst “brain ruined perfectly good sex” story below. i need to know i’m not the only human dumpster fire out here.
ps these wrecked me (good wrecked): The Body Keeps the Score anxious attachment doing the nasty
