Set Myself on Fire Yesterday

I had a fight with Matt.

After seven months of new love bliss, I decided to show my ugliest parts.

Yes, the man I brag about here—the consistent, steady love of my life, who shows up for me in meaningful ways, big and small.

And I didn’t just pick a fight.

I went straight for the jugular.

It started as a miscommunication. Something small. Something solvable. A moment where we had spent a lot of time together, and he needed space to decompress. And I, in my anxious mind, interpreted that space as an exit sign.

He took his space, and in the silence that followed, my mind became a construction site.

Brick by brick, I built a case against him. Stacking assumptions on top of old wounds, cementing them together with fear, reinforcing them with every insecurity I’ve ever known.

I convinced myself that silence meant distance. That distance meant disinterest. That disinterest meant I was losing him.

And then, in that moment, I became something different.

An animal fighting for its life.

I watched as his truck pulled out of my driveway, and I decided it was time for grenades.

And I started throwing them, baby.

Bombs. Desperate messages. Anger.

Hoping something, anything would catch his attention. Make him see me. Show him how desperately I was hurting.

And one finally did.

But that explosion came at a cost—one that I was devastated to pay.

I had injured trust. I had hurt our security. The free flow of loving conversation between us had calcified into silence, and now I had to sit with that.

What was I trying to do? Prove something?

Get assurance that I wanted deeply but didn’t actually need?

If I’m being honest, I think I wanted to hurt him. That makes me sick to say. But I lashed out in fear because I thought I was losing him anyway. I saw him standing at the edge of a cliff, and I gave him the final shove.

Let’s see if he comes back from that. Prove that you love me now.

But all I did was create a distance my heart couldn’t bear, especially with him out of town. And that’s when the storm of anxiety rolled in.

Because if you have anxious attachment, there’s a moment. The moment right after the explosion. When the dust settles and the weight of what you’ve done comes crashing down. 

The realization that you created a crisis.

That you turned something small into something painful.

That you inflicted hurt on the person you love—not because they deserved it, but because fear told you it was the only way to feel safe.

And now you have to live with it.

The frantic backpedaling. The sick feeling in your stomach. The desperate need to make repair, but no real way to undo the damage.

Anxiety is a cruel trickster.

It convinces you that panic will solve uncertainty. That testing love will make it feel more secure. And then, when you burn the bridge just to see if someone will try and cross it, when you create the exact thing you were terrified of...

You’re left with nothing but regret.

So I waited in my hurt for what felt like a century, but in reality was just six hours.

That night, Matt called.

Just hearing his voice, just hearing him say baby, made him real again. Made me feel safe.  And immediately, the weight of the shame, the embarrassment, the unnecessary pain I created sank in.

I had sent those messages out into the great unknown, feeling like there wasn’t a person there, just the concept of one.

I wanted proof that he was real. That he was alive to me.

And this all comes down to my trauma.

I have been wired for anxious attachment, for object impermanence. Like a baby whose parent leaves the room and suddenly no longer believes they exist.

If I can’t see love, I fear it’s gone.

If I don’t feel connection, I fear I’ve been abandoned.

And there’s a reason for that.

Because when I was young, love did disappear. It was unstable. It was unpredictable. It came with conditions. One minute, I was held. The next, I was left alone. And I learned, deep in my bones, that distance meant permanent loss.

That quiet meant goodbye.

That love was something you had to chase or risk losing forever.

And that’s why when I see someone’s back in the doorway, fear takes over.

And I don’t reach for reassurance.

I already know that’s a waste.

Instead, I reach for a match.

I pull it close to my chest, hoping to feel something.

And I strike it against my heart.

I set myself on fire.

Just to see if he will come running.

And then I stand there, shocked when all I do is burn myself.

So now, I face the wreckage of what I’ve done. The weight of it all. The regret. I look at the security of a beautiful love that I injured in all of my recklessness. One that didn’t deserve any of this hurt, but still continues to show up.

I hate how my insides affect my outsides. The truth is none of this is what I want. Anxious attachment is such a paradox. 

I crave closeness, but sometimes the fear of it makes me shove it away.

I long for security, but when I get it, I never fully trust it.

And then, when I feel disconnected, I don’t reach for love gently.

I grab for it with desperate hands, hoping to force certainty out of something that was never in question.

It’s a heavy thing, learning to trust.

Especially when you’ve given someone a damn good reason to leave. Cause then you have to wait and see if they take it.

And that’s another thing I wasn’t prepared for.

When I handed Matt an escape route and he didn’t take it, whatever power dynamic I thought existed in the push and pull—

Gone.

It never existed in the first place. 

And now I had to face that, too. I had to admit that I had played cruel games in the heart of this honest love.

Now, all that’s left is naked trust. 

And trust is a hard thing for someone like me.

For a baby whose parent disappeared around the corner and never came back with a peek-a-boo.

But this—

This love is what matters most in my world. Because this flame is the only one I truly care to tend—the only one I’m deeply proud that I’ve started.

I know I can help it.

I can heal.

I deserve that and so does he.

So I’m going to own my shit.

I’m going to apologize for turning my wounds into weapons. And I’m going to commit to do better. I will stop building walls and throwing weapons that hurt.

I will learn to lay it all down.

Every power play, every assumption, every wound that I’ve carried.

I’m ready to walk away.

Instead, I will look this love in the eyes and try to believe what it has shown me—something my anxious brain resists, but love keeps proving true.

Naked trust.

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Dear friends,

It means the world to me that you’re here. Sharing these pieces of my heart is my way of pushing past fear, step by step.

I’ll always keep my words open and accessible because I believe encouragement and love should never come with a paywall.

But if you choose to support my work financially, know that you’re not just keeping the lights on—you’re keeping my voice alive.

Thank you for showing up alongside me on this journey.

With love and gratitude,

Mary Katherine