When Loneliness Makes You Ignore Yourself

You know the feeling. Saturday morning. Your apartment silent. The weekend stretches ahead like an empty page. Outside, couples laugh in cafes, stroll hand in hand in the park. And you? You’re alone, again. That quiet gnawing thought creeps in: maybe this is just how it’s going to be.

So when someone wants you- even a little- you grab hold.

At first, it feels like relief. Someone notices you. Someone wants you. And then, the small cracks begin.

He asks you to speak differently, makes comments on your tone or phrasing, as if your natural way is wrong. Your words, your habits, your perspective—they’re “different,” “unusual.” You sense it’s more than a preference: your way of being isn’t enough. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t try to understand. Cultural nuances, your context, your values—they’re invisible to him.

Your stomach drops. Anger rises.

But then you do the math – angry and alone, or tolerated and wanted?

You choose wanted. You tell yourself it’s not that bad. That you’re overreacting. That maybe this is as good as it gets.

You know, deep down, what it means.

But being alone feels worse than being disrespected.

The Negotiation

“Maybe I’m overreacting.” (You’re not.)

“Maybe he didn’t mean it that way.” (He did.)

“Maybe he’ll understand if I explain it better.” (He won’t.)

“It’s not that bad.” (It is.)

“This is probably as good as it gets.” (It isn’t.)

You’re negotiating with reality because the alternative – being alone again – feels unbearable. You know what that comment means. It means he thinks his way is superior. It means this is a fundamental incompatibility. It means every difficult conversation from here on out will have this same dynamic.

But you also feel the pull of loneliness like gravity. The empty weekends, the quiet apartment, the gnawing thought that maybe connection will always be just out of reach. The self-doubt that whispers you’re the problem keeps you anchored.

So you stay. Not because you want him. Because you don’t want that.

Not Him. Just Not Alone.

There’s a difference between choosing someone and choosing not to be alone.

When you choose someone, you’re saying: their presence enriches me. Being with them feels better than being without them.

When you choose not being alone, you’re saying: I’ll tolerate this person because emptiness feels worse.

One is desire. The other is fear.

Loneliness

Loneliness isn’t rational. It’s primal.

Your body screams that isolation equals death because for most of human history, it did. Being cut off from the group meant you didn’t survive.

So when you meet someone who wants you, every instinct says: GRAB THIS. DON’T LET GO.

It doesn’t matter if they’re wrong for you. It doesn’t matter if they disrespect you. What matters is they chose you, which means you’re not unlovable, which means you’re going to survive.

This isn’t weakness. This is biology.

Biology doesn’t care if you’re happy. It just cares if you survive. And right now, your body thinks staying with someone who doesn’t respect you is safer than risking the void.

Your body is wrong.

And somewhere, you already know that. You’re reading this because part of you recognises what’s happening. The part that gets angry when he dismisses you. The part that lies awake at 2am knowing this isn’t right. The part that keeps scrolling articles like this one, looking for permission to trust what you already know.

That part of you? That’s the part worth listening to.

How you stop trusting yourself

You see another red flag. You talk to a friend about it. You feel better, like you did something. Then you go back and act like it never happened.

Or you see it and you don’t say anything. You just… let it go. Add it to the collection.

Three months in, he makes another dismissive comment and you don’t even get angry anymore. You just let it pass.

Six months in, your friend asks “Are you happy?” and you can’t answer honestly because you’ve been lying to yourself for so long you don’t know what honest feels like.

A year in, you realise you can’t trust your own judgment. If you were wrong about this—if you talked yourself into staying when you knew better—what else are you wrong about?

And then the pattern spreads. The job you stay in even though it drains you. The friendship that takes and takes. The family dynamics you tolerate because setting boundaries might mean being cut off.

The cost isn’t just this relationship. It’s learning not to trust yourself anywhere.

You turn into someone who believes they deserve crumbs. Someone who won’t believe it even when someone good comes along – someone who would actually choose you – because you’ve spent so long betraying yourself.

Loneliness is temporary. You can be alone today and not alone next year. You can be alone and still whole.

But this? This lasts.

If you want out

You can’t trust yourself right now. You’ve spent months betraying yourself. Trust gets rebuilt with evidence, not affirmations.

Next time you feel that drop in your stomach? Stop. Don’t negotiate. Just sit with the knowing.

Ask yourself, “Am I afraid of losing this person, or am I afraid of being alone?”

If it’s being alone, that’s your signal. That’s not love. That’s fear.

Feel the loneliness. Sit in your apartment. Feel the quiet. Notice that you’re not actually dying. You’re just uncomfortable.

Discomfort isn’t death. This is a slow death. Just quieter.

Start small. The next time he says something dismissive, speak up. If he dismisses you again, notice. Don’t explain it away. You’re gathering evidence about whether this person can handle your truth.

Build your capacity to be alone. Do things alone. Go to dinner alone. Sit with yourself until being with you feels better than being with someone who makes you small.

And imagine handling that moment differently.

He makes the comment. Your stomach drops. But this time, you say: “That felt dismissive.”

Maybe he apologises. Maybe he gets defensive. Maybe he doubles down.

But you made a small change. You honoured what you know instead of overriding it.

You’ve learned something about him. More importantly, about yourself. You can tolerate your own knowing. You can sit with conflict. You can risk disapproval. You can choose yourself, even when being alone terrifies you.

That’s the practice. Not a dramatic exit.

The next time you know something, don’t betray it. The next time your gut speaks, don’t silence it.

Because staying with someone who doesn’t respect you isn’t avoiding loneliness. It’s just being lonely with company.

Which is worse.