Sitting Down, Emotional Loops and Other Systems I Didn’t Sign Up For? PART ONE

for Cinnamon, and anyone else who loves too hard for their own circuitry

I’ve worked in systems for half my life.
I know how to trace failure points. Run tests. Rewrite code.

But somehow, I missed the system running under me.

Invisible. Faulty. Outdated.
Old loops firing in the background, built from survival, fed by silence, protected by sarcasm.

I didn’t write all of it.
But I kept it running.
Until I didn’t.

What follows isn’t a pity party or a fix-it manual.
It’s a soft log of the code I’m working to rewrite.
The glitches I’m finally tracing back to their root.

If any of this sounds familiar, you’re not alone.
And no, you’re not the problem.
You’re just running on outdated instructions.

It’s time for an upgrade.

Loop 1: The Ache That Won’t Leave

Theme: “I love too deeply for the world I live in.”

Sometimes I feel like I care too much, too hard, too fast—
like my wiring is turned up higher than everyone else’s, and it costs me.

I’ll notice myself reading into silences, second-guessing what I said,
missing people who aren’t really gone but suddenly feel out of reach.

And then I go quiet.
Or sharp.
Or both.

This loop kicks in when:
Someone pulls away emotionally, even slightly.
Or when I feel something big and the other person doesn’t feel it back.

I start thinking I’m too intense.
Too much.
That I’ll lose them.
That I already have.

So I pull back first.
I shrink before someone asks me to.

What I used to believe:
If I feel this much and it’s not mirrored, I must be too much.

What I’m trying to believe now:
I’m not too much. I just love with clarity.
And if someone leaves when I’m being real, that’s not about my size—
it’s about their capacity.

It’s not the ache that breaks me.
It’s pretending it isn’t there.

Loop 2: The Isolation Protocol

Theme: “If I show too much of myself, they’ll leave… or they’ll stay and make me small.”

I’ve spent a long time learning how to be palatable.

Not for strangers.
For people I’ve loved.

I know how to shape my words, soften my tone, delay my reactions,
and talk myself out of needs that feel inconvenient to others.

It’s not that I don’t know what I want.
It’s that I’ve often made what I want easier to ignore.

And sometimes I’ll look around and realize:
I’ve built a quiet, careful life with someone I can’t be fully honest with.
I’m not invisible—
I’m just edited.

This loop kicks in when:
I sense someone pulling away, bristling, or making fun of something that matters to me.
I try to explain, and they wave it off.
Or they joke.
Or they say, “You’re overthinking it.”

So I retreat.
I downplay.
I let them have the pizza.
I pretend the joke didn’t sting.
I accept the manipulation as “compromise.”
I adjust myself until the version of me they can tolerate shows up.

And then I wonder where I went.

What I used to believe:
If I keep things calm and easy, the relationship will stay intact—
even if I don’t.

What I’m trying to believe now:
I don’t have to shrink, or be manipulated, to be loved.
I don’t owe anyone the most diluted version of myself.

Peace isn’t peace if it costs me my voice.

Sometimes silence keeps the room quiet.
But it also keeps me alone in it.

Loop 3: The Guilt–Gratitude Trap

Theme: “If I’m not grateful, I’m unworthy. And if I’m unworthy, I don’t deserve help.”

This one is sneaky.
It doesn’t scream.

It whispers things like:
“Other people have it worse.”
“You’re lucky, really.”
“You’re still functioning, so what’s the problem?”

It shows up when I’m feeling worn out or sad, and instead of allowing that,
I pivot into guilt.
I start trying to override my real emotions with gratitude.
Not the real kind—the forced kind.
The kind that looks good but doesn’t heal anything.

I’ll be hurting, and somehow still feel like I should apologize for it.

This loop kicks in when:
I compare my pain to someone else’s.
Or when I start to feel overwhelmed and immediately follow it with,
“But I shouldn’t complain.”

I catch myself thinking:

“I have a good life. My bills are paid. There’s a roof over my head.
I’ve even got a little money set aside.
But I’m screaming inside for affection.
For touch. For frequency.
For any spark that reminds me I’m still alive.
But don’t think like that, you have a good life. Better than most.”

That’s the voice of the loop.
The one that tells me emotional needs are indulgent.
That sadness is selfish.
That wanting more is ungrateful.

What I used to believe:
If I’m struggling, it means I’m not grateful.
If I’m not grateful, I don’t deserve help.

What I’m trying to believe now:
Gratitude and grief aren’t mutually exclusive.
I can be thankful and still be tired.
I can have a “good life” and still need more than basic survival.

I don’t have to be in crisis to matter.

Needing connection doesn’t mean I’m ungrateful.
It means I’m still human.

Want more?
No wrong order, though. It’s all mess and meaning either way.
Here’s PART TWO → “Sitting Down, Emotional Loops…