Are they dismissive avoidant or just a dismissive asshole?: Learning to cope when it’s both

The call was initially supposed to be you apologizing for blowing off our cybersex date.

I knew it made you uncomfortable to talk dirty, but I’d been gently pleading with you to try for the entirety of our time as a long-distance couple so far. You’d finally agreed to set aside time so we could practice. An “undress rehearsal”, if you will.

I confirmed twice that day, emphasizing how important it was to me.

We’d been good friends for over 12 years and had been dating for two, one of which had been long-distance while you were at D.O. school. We always talked about how functional we were as a couple, the only strain being the physical distance.

Smutty romance novels had gotten me this far, but I was starved for intimacy however I could get it. Hell, I told you many times you could copy something from the internet and I’d never know or care.

I just wanted to feel desired by my partner, something that’s tough to accomplish when you’re temporarily living several states apart.

Familiar as I was with the demands of your schedule, I’d been gracious when you pushed the date three hours until late at night. I never dared interfere with your dedication to school. Not only did I value your drive, but as in love as I believed we were, I think deep down I always knew who would win that ultimatum.

But when you officially bailed several hours after the rescheduled time, even I, who had been infallibly patient for over a year, had to admit I was pissed.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I just asked for some time to process the hurt I was feeling. We didn’t speak for almost a full day.

August

“Can we take a time-out here? Because it sounds like you’re breaking up with me and I want to be clear that is not what I want.”

“Not necessarily…”

My vision began to swim. Alarm bells clanged in my head. What the hell does not necessarily mean?

I can usually read people pretty well, yet somehow this was my first indication we weren’t on the same page. I was under the impression our relationship was nearly perfect, secure, safe. We were supposed to be making up right now. We hadn’t even fought. We never fought.

Seemingly on a whim, you proceeded to end our 2-year relationship (and 12-year friendship) over the course of a 13-minute phone call.

In infuriatingly typical fashion, you ended the conversation by saying you loved me but you had to get to class.

This whole time, I’d been so careful not to ask you to choose, yet still, you chose school over me. I’m sure that attendance grade was deeply meaningful to you.

I launched a framed picture out of my second-story window. A photo of us at the beach a decade earlier shattered spectacularly across the parking lot.

Later, I picked up the pieces so the stray cats who frequented the lot wouldn’t get hurt.

A note on dismissive-avoidant attachment

Dismissive-avoidant attachment is characterized by a tendency to avoid emotional closeness and intimacy. Individuals with this attachment style often value self-reliance above all else. They may downplay the importance of emotional connection and find it difficult to express vulnerability or seek support from partners. This can lead to a pattern of dismissing or minimizing their own needs and emotions, as well as those of their partners.

Coping with the challenges of a dismissive-avoidant partner requires self-compassion and a focus on personal well-being. Therapy can be an invaluable resource for navigating the complexities of a dismissive-avoidant relationship. A trained professional can help you explore your own attachment style, understand the dynamics at play, and develop effective communication strategies.

It’s important to recognize that dismissive avoidance is not a personal flaw, but rather a learned coping mechanism that may stem from past experiences, such as inconsistent caregiving or emotional neglect.

It’s also important to remember that attachment styles do not excuse disrespectful treatment.

Early September

You stonewalled me for weeks, suddenly and completely cutting off contact to avoid confronting your feelings.

It was a move befitting your attachment style. It actually became harmful, how much I analyzed that.

I made so many excuses for your bewildering behavior. I was endlessly compassionate toward you, desperately hoping to coax you back to me after you’d so obviously bolted in fear.

Meanwhile, you refused to extend an ounce of comfort in return by taking responsibility for how horribly you’d ended things. This wasn’t just avoidant, it was cold.

To say I was a wreck would be laughably polite. I teetered wildly between a total loss of hope and an odd certainty that you were having a meltdown from school and would come to your senses (I still think I was half-right).

The fact I’d been diagnosed with CPTSD, a souvenir from a recent abusive relationship, less than a week before you dumped me, did not help my ability to cope with the loss. You knew I’d begun taking an SSRI anxiety medication for the first time due to the diagnosis.

Unfortunately, these side effects are also all classic symptoms of a breakup.

The Holmes-Rahe Stress Inventory measures stress on a scale based on the amount of classically stressful life experiences a person has endured. The higher the score, the higher chance your stress level is affecting your overall physical and mental health. Going through a divorce or separation ranks #2 and #3 on the list of most stressful events, defeated only by the death of a spouse.

The breakup blindsided me, throwing me into an emotional tailspin that amplified the very anxiety I was seeking to address. The one person I trusted to support me in this vulnerable time had callously abandoned me. I felt like I’d lost my mind. I even called my doctor, practically pleading with her to tell me the pain was a side effect of the meds.

Mid-September

About a week after our breakup, I happened to be flying to a town just an hour away from your school for my younger sister’s bachelorette party.

Originally, you’d planned to pick me up after the bachelorette festivities so we could spend a few days together, something we’d been excitedly planning for weeks and which I’d booked, with your approval, just days before the breakup.

But instead of the love-affirming trip celebrating my sister’s engagement I thought I’d booked, which was topped off with a romantic weekend with the person I was led to believe loved me; what I got was hours of sobbing in crowded bar bathrooms while pretending every mention of love, the future, and soulmates wasn’t another slice to my heart.

I then got to spend 15 hours waiting in the airport once my family left, because it was the only flight I could exchange my original flight for with so little notice.

Do you know how in rom-coms there’s the montage that ends with the guy running to meet the girl at the airport, where he proclaims what a stunted dumbass he is and begs for another change? Yeah, that didn’t happen.

That was the night I lost hope of hearing from you again.

Late September

It was a week or so after the bachelorette party when, to my astonishment, you finally reached out:

At this point, I can read the above for what it is: excuses and cowardice.

At the time, however, I was ecstatic. Even more so after a mutual friend, who’d been a tremendous supporter and shoulder to cry on, excitedly informed me you’d also reached out to her looking for advice. She promised to let me know when you talked so I could be ready.

I got so excited, you fucking asshole. I literally waited by the phone. I didn’t do anything for days.

Then weeks.

October

I kept trying to twist the reality of your ghosting into a reason that made sense. Why would you reach out saying you wanted to talk in the first place if you weren’t going to follow up? What kind of monster does that? You know I’m hurting already. To leave me hanging like that is unimaginably cruel. Inhumane. There must be some reason. Your phone is broken. You got in a car crash. You’re lost in the wilderness.

What could I have possibly done to you to make you treat me this way?

After weeks of waiting for you to reach back out, I messaged you on Snapchat asking when you wanted to talk. You never opened it.

I was having multiple anxiety attacks a day. I could barely stand to focus on a conversation that wasn’t about you. I knew it was wearing on my loved ones, who were forced to console me through hours of cyclical rants spent picking apart your attachment style and childhood trauma. Even my therapist had to be getting sick of analyzing your behavior.

A month or so later, I convinced myself you hadn’t opened my message because you’d deleted Snapchat. Thinking I’d cracked the code to your silence, I messaged you on Instagram.

You’d been especially active since the breakup (almost like you’re trying to fill the void you created where emotional support and connection once were), posting stories when you never used to and watching mine daily, so I knew you’d see the notification.

Again, you refused to open the message. I broke apart all over again every time I saw you post another martyr-esque story about how hard school was while continuing to ignore me.

At this point, I could barely choke down food. I quit my master’s program, even though I was over halfway finished and had a near-perfect GPA. I have no clue if I was doing anything useful at work, but it certainly didn’t feel like it.

The more this unjust punishment went on, the more I wanted to stop existing. It was likely worsened due to side effects from the meds, but my mental state was so tenuous I was afraid another change could make the pain worse. I considered calling my doctor again, but couldn’t bring myself to find the energy.

A journal entry I found from that time read:

Meanwhile, you were still watching every single one of my Instagram stories. Like you were overseeing the devastation you created. And I kept feeding them to you, desperate as I was for the tiny spark of dopamine when I saw your profile picture under my views.

If you were going to bail on talking, you should have just left me alone. This treatment was unimaginably cruel and painful. I should sue you for malpractice.

Speaking of being a doctor (which you always are), you say you want to be one because you care about people? You want to be entrusted with the responsibility of making critical decisions about patients’ well-being? Please.

Your complete disregard for my emotional and mental well-being during an already vulnerable time raises monumental questions about your ability to empathize and relate to the experience of others. Based on this experience, it seems far more likely that you’d flee the hospital rather than console an emotional patient.

I think the real reason you want to be a doctor is you want nothing more than to be the rich, white, faux-ally who can condescend to others while lecturing them on how they can get where you are.

Because you know best, right?

And in becoming a doctor you will achieve status, proving your worth to others in a way that makes you believe in it yourself, right?

Which is why you won’t allow yourself to admit to a single failure or weakness. The emotions that come with being an imperfect human are too shameful to look at or process, so you bury them. It’s why you couldn’t stand someone giving you honest criticism in any manner, even if it was expressing a single intimate need in an otherwise conflict-free relationship. Hitting eject feels easier than allowing yourself to explore your vulnerabilities, and you care so much about avoiding your own discomfort that you’ll abandon even those you claim to care about most.

Was I beginning to finally see the cracks in the pedestal I put you on?

November

One day, almost three months after you re-ghosted me, I finally had enough. This was how you treated someone you allegedly loved, who had done nothing to cause you harm? It was really that easy to completely erase someone you claimed to care about for 12 years? Fuck you.

I unfriended you on all social media, ran 3 miles, sobbed in the shower for 30 minutes, then ordered Doordash and binge-watched The Great.

The next morning, I felt like I might be a little ok eventually.

December

It was the week of my little sister’s wedding. I’d planned a road trip home to spend time with loved ones and help out with my sister’s big day.

So, naturally, that’s when you finally decided to “reach out”. When you knew I’d be feeling vulnerable and bombarded with triggering places and people. When you knew I’d be thinking about how you were originally supposed to be there with me.

And it was with this bullshit:

Notice how I didn’t have to censor a single personal detail. That’s a great attempt at an apology written by a human, but I’m not buying it.

I got the text while hanging out with two of my dearest friends. Even as I wordlessly handed them the phone and dissolved into complicated tears, I knew I’d never respond. My infinitely patient and hilarious loved ones spent the evening therapeutically screaming with me about how you were permanently canceled and I left their house feeling strangely peaceful.

Day of the wedding

Of course, after all that, you couldn’t just let me leave you on read.

On the day of the wedding, I was actually feeling pretty good. I was truly so happy for my baby sister and her lovely fiance, and it was easy to focus on what she needed to feel as special as she deserved.

It was why I had to laugh at the complete absurdity of you, on the day of the wedding, RSVP-ing No to the Google Calendar wedding invite I’d forgotten I’d sent you way back when we got the Save the Dates.

To twist the knife, you waited until during the ceremony. I’d ignored your emotionless “apology,” and this was your response? How did I never realize what an absolute stranger you are?

The rest of the wedding was gorgeous. My best friend and I spent most of the reception sneaking to the bridesmaids’ suite to hide from my family’s comments, making brief appearances to give the illusion we were mingling. The only time this technique failed was when we ran into one of my aunts. If the conversation hadn’t happened with my friend standing next to me, I’d have thought I made it up:

“So… You’re the last one.”

“…Yeah.”

“Not planning to change that anytime soon?”

“…Nope.”

Now that you mention it, I used to think I had plans, but I was recently brutally dumped. Great catching up, it’s moments like this that I travel across the country for.

Now

It’s a year later, and I’m still processing closure on my own every day. I’ve moved on romantically, but I’m still reclaiming hobbies and places that were once ours. I hold so much anger toward you that some days I tell you to go fuck yourself out loud.

It can still be painful, but I don’t run from this work the way you did.

Sometimes I roll my window down on the highway and let my arm float on the wind. In these moments, I visualize the memory of you as pages being ripped from my fingertips, whipping and swirling in the rearview. Then I look at the empty passenger seat and remember you were there once, singing at the top of our lungs like nothing could hurt us. Like we wouldn’t hurt each other.

Joyful. Fleeting. Fake.

Want more on despicable exes, attachment styles, and trauma recovery?