I confused lust and self-interest for affection, and my vulnerabilities became expectations: ‘Fix me’, ‘Give me security’, and ‘Love me unconditionally because I can’t do that for myself’. No pressure, boys. When they didn’t make me feel valued, I’d turn on my inner ‘he’s a tosser’ playlist with tracks like ‘manipulative’, ‘unavailable’ and ‘controlling’. My girlfriends either got tired of hearing the same songs or danced along. I never saw the hypocrisy.

I thought a relationship would be my ticket to validation and proof that I was doing fine, so I went on endless dates. Different guys, same cycle. I’d meet them, put too much energy into the situation, then overanalyse every message and interaction. We’d go on a few dates where I’d fantasise about who I wanted them to be, sometimes labelling them either Prince Charming or ‘alarming’ within minutes. Regardless of the picture I painted of them, based on the loosest of outlines, I was too focused on their approval. I’d soon realise they couldn’t live up to my fantasy and almost take it personally.

I feared abandonment, so at any sign they might leave, no matter how baseless, I’d run. The keyword here is baseless because I lived on the defensive, interpreting the smallest things as slights. It always felt as though they weren’t doing enough: not caring enough, not treating me like I was enough. I needed constant reassurance, always wanting more. But more was a bottomless pit, and I assumed if they couldn’t make me feel like I was everything, they thought I was nothing.

My distance meant not returning calls or cancelling plans. The same sort of things I’d loathe them for, I’d do myself. At times, I’d throw little tests their way to see how much they liked me, like flirting with or making ambiguous comments about other men. I thought I could pre-empt being left, and my subconscious would decide to hurt them first or to numb the approaching blow with another dose of validation. It never worked, and I only ended up causing more pain for myself (and for them). Rinse, lather, repeat and rejection reared its lovely head. It felt like a personal attack, as if they’d breached a contract they had no idea they’d signed.

I realised things had to change when I felt like breaking up with myself. Everything I used to numb unaddressed trauma stopped working and became the problem. That’s when I checked into rehab. One of the first exercises they had me do was to mark a dot for every negative thought I had about myself. By day’s end, the page was Jackson Pollock-esque. But those dots weren’t about who I now know I am; they reflected who I thought I was based on what I’d been told and, ultimately, the unhealthy behaviours I developed.

My jokes were a front meant to make others laugh, often at my own expense, because I craved acceptance and thought all I had to offer was being the punchline. I had no idea who I was without the mask I’d been wearing.

“I thought men were using me. It turns out that I was using them all along”