I Had A Secret Teenage Romance. It Wasn’t Until Years Later That I Realized What Really Happened.

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I first learned about attachment theory in graduate school. The theory, originated by British psychiatrist John Bowlby in the 1960s, posits that attachment is formed during the first few years of life and determined by the quality of relationships between children and their primary caregivers. It offers a psychological framework for understanding how early relationships with caregivers impact interpersonal relationships, behaviors and emotional regulation throughout life.

Psychologist Mary Ainsworth later expanded on Bowlby’s work by conducting the “Strange Situation” experiment where babies were left alone for a period of time before being reunited with their mothers. Based on her observations, Ainsworth concluded that there were different types of attachment, including secure, ambivalent-insecure and avoidant-insecure. Later, a fourth type of attachment was added, disorganized attachment, based on research performed by Mary Main and Judith Solomon, two psychologists from the University of California, Berkeley.

During my practicum, I took a quick online assessment and wasn’t at all surprised to learn that I have anxious/insecure attachment — the unfortunate combo of disorganized and fearful-avoidant. Learning about my attachment style was a critical first step toward gaining a deeper understanding of how I operate in relationships. For instance, it made me recognize my tendency to disconnect during difficult emotional experiences. My college boyfriend referred to this behavior as “going into Anna land,” which looked like avoiding emotionally charged conversations, daydreaming and pulling away.

Over the years, the more I learned about attachment theory, the more I wondered if my anxious attachment and age-old coping mechanisms had something to do with Levi? They both seemed to share deeply entrenched and unconscious patterns of behavior, and there seemed to be an obvious commonality between the two — fantasy.

When I was young, I adopted various mental and emotional coping mechanisms to help me feel safe. I carried these limerent strategies — detachment, avoidance and fantasy — into adolescence. Back then, I needed to escape the reality of my childhood home — my sad, lonely mother and my emotionally unavailable father. My limerent object became the lightning rod for all my emotions, both good and bad. My relationship with Levi helped to ease my insecurities and fear of abandonment, but limerence becomes pathological when a person prioritizes the fantasy version of someone over the real, live version of them — especially because those two versions don’t often add up.

It took me a long time to distill the idea of my LO from the reality of my experience. Love demands a willingness to meet the other person in the moment, and the truth is, some nights I’d hide from Levi — in a closet or my sister’s room — as he wandered around my dark, empty house looking for me.

Coming to terms with how — and why — I created these maladaptive coping strategies was a pivotal turning point in my emotional development. As a child, I longed to grow up with answers and a sense of certainty — to be taught to believe in things like God and the Red Sox. During adolescence, my limerent object became my mental, emotional and spiritual bypass to get me through. As an adult, I was still using archaic coping mechanisms as a means to self-regulate. I knew that if I wanted to be fully autonomous and present in my life, I needed to let them go.

These days, as a mother and wife, I understand that love is an action, not just a feeling. I am responsible for creating my own happily-ever-after. While it’s impossible to have all the answers, I try to be honest with myself and others about the things I don’t understand. I believe that showing up and being present with the people I love, even when it’s difficult, is the best thing I can do — like when my son has a sensory meltdown and I sit with him until he stops screaming, or when my husband and I have a disagreement, I stay in the room and work it out. 

Equally difficult, I allow — often force — myself to witness moments of beauty — like how my younger son still loves to climb into my bed each morning and press himself into the folds of my body. I know these moments are fleeting.