How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Constant Need for Reassurance
Hi, I’m the human equivalent of a pop-up ad asking, “Are you mad at me?”—and I’m here to tell you what it’s like to live life as a high-functioning emotional warranty department.
I require attention like plants need sunlight, like influencers need ring lights, like Republicans need something to hate. I am, without shame, the friend who texts “hey” and then stares at the phone like it just insulted my entire lineage when you don’t reply within ten minutes. Not because I think you’re mad. But because I know you’re mad. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. Whatever—just text me back so I can stop spiraling.
Growing up, I didn’t receive enough hugs, or validation, or reasonably priced therapy. So now I overcompensate by clinging to everyone I love like a koala on meth. I don’t want constant reassurance—I need it. I hoard it like it’s canned soup in a doomsday bunker. “Do you still love me?” isn’t a question—it’s my love language. Followed closely by “Was that okay?” and “You sure you’re not just being polite?”
Relationships? Oh, honey. I’m like a loyalty rewards program for affection. The more you give, the more points I accumulate until I eventually melt down at 2 a.m. and whisper, “I just feel like you’re pulling away.”
It’s not that I don’t trust people. I just don’t trust people. Or myself. Or happiness that lasts longer than a TikTok. I have abandonment issues so deep they qualify as a minor trench system.
And yet—here’s the kicker—I’m also self-aware. Which is arguably worse. I can narrate my own dysfunction in real time while still being powerless to stop it. “Oh look,” I’ll say mid-overreaction, “here comes the irrational fear of being unloved, probably rooted in unresolved childhood trauma. Anyway, how was your day? Was it me? It was me, wasn’t it?”
But hey, I’m working on it. With coping skills, journaling, trauma-informed CBT, and three to five business days of sulking before I apologize for feeling too much. I’ve learned that being needy doesn’t make you weak—it makes you prepared. Prepared for disappointment. Prepared for ghosting. Prepared to reread an entire text thread looking for evidence that your friend secretly hates you.
So yes, I’m a needy son of a bitch. But I’m also loyal, funny, emotionally literate, and weirdly good at remembering birthdays. I will gas you up with the intensity of a drag queen on a Red Bull bender. I will cry with you, not at you. And when you need someone to hold space? Honey, I built a fucking auditorium.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to reread this entire post six times and ask at least three friends if it makes me sound desperate.
(But like… do you still like me?)