Chasing the Unavailable: My Dopamine Addiction

Long, long ago, If a man lacked in effort, there were no second chances. No second guesses. Reason enough to let go and move on. The trending “if they wanted to, they would” mindset or Mel Robbins’ “let them” theory. 

Now, I find myself lost to it, drifting further and further away from recognizing a man who will not commit. Worse, desiring the man who can’t, who won’t.  Not only ignoring that instinct but actively running in the opposite direction—full speed chasing after the man who looks over his shoulder every now and then to make sure I’m still behind him. 

Place Your Bets

Something has grown to be deeply, disturbingly wrong with me. The men who don’t want me, who are incapable of loving me, who make it abundantly clear– I find them exhilarating. 

Maybe it’s Freudian. Maybe it’s self-sabotage. Or, that addiction gene cultivated in something unlikely, something looked past: the pleasure chemical. The rush of the reward. 

When the reward is unpredictable and risky, the rush is greater. It’s why some gamble with higher stakes, why they tiptoe the line of risk. The maybe keeps them hooked. 

Replace slot machines and substances with emotionally unavailable men and you get my favorite form of self-destruction. 

The kind that doesn’t look dangerous at first—the kind that feels like excitement, like passion, like something worth earning. The kind where you convince yourself that eventually you’ll hit the jackpot.

I’m not addicted to him. I’m addicted to the high—the validation, the breadcrumbs. 

The problem with highs? The crashes.

Realizing that I was never actually winning—never actually playing– just being strung along. That his attention isn’t proof of anything except my willingness to wait around for it. That I’m not special, not different, not the exception.

Archetypes 

What is it about certain men that keep us stuck? Why do some hold power over us long after they’ve made their disinterest clear? And why do we keep coming back, even when we know how the story ends?

There are men who love you. There are men who like you. And then there are men who exist solely to haunt you, break your spirit. 

1— The Player

He’s charming. He’s competitive. He’s emotionally unavailable, but not in a careless way—no, his distance is measured, calculated. Everything he does is designed to keep you interested without ever fully committing. He flirts just enough, engages just enough, withdraws just enough to make you feel like you need to prove something.

You’re both playing the same game—flirting, retreating, testing, waiting. The chemistry is there, but so is the ego. The dynamic with him isn’t about love. It’s about competition.

Who will break first? Who will cave? Who will show they care?

You don’t even know if you want him. You just know that you want to win. If he texts you, you wait exactly as long to text back. If he flirts with someone else, you flirt harder. If he leaves with them, you act as if you feel nothing.

But if he ever loses interest, it will hurt. Because it’s not just about him—it’s about proving to yourself that you could have had him if you wanted to.

The reality is that The Player doesn’t choose anyone. He engages where he feels challenged, and he disengages the moment the challenge disappears. He never fully commits because that would require forfeiting the game he cherishes so dearly.

2— The Dream Seller

He’s different from The Player in one key way: he makes you believe he wants something real. He presents himself as emotionally available, as someone who sees you, values you, adores you. He looks at you like you’re special. Like you’re different. Like he’s never met a girl like you before.

He tells you things he’s “never told anyone else.” You do the same. Maybe about your family, your passions, your fears. He makes you believe in something bigger. He lets you feel safe—like maybe, for once, this is real.

Until he doesn’t. The energy shifts. The texts slow down but he still says all the right things when you do talk. He pulls away, subtly at first, then all at once. Maybe he gives you a reason. He gets busy. He gets stressed. Keeps just enough intimacy to maintain hope. 

Eventually, you get the “I’m just not ready for something serious.” Maybe he isn’t. Either way, you’re left spiraling, wondering if you imagined everything.

Unlike The Player, who never made you think he was serious in the first place, The Dream Seller builds an emotional connection that feels different. Losing him doesn’t just hurt—it shakes your belief system. Maybe you misunderstood him. Maybe you overestimated his feelings. Maybe, if you had just done one thing differently, he would have stayed.

But that’s the cruelest part: it was never about you. It was about his own need for emotional validation, his search for comfort, his inability to follow through on what he started.

Yet, the door with him never truly closes. You know he’s bad for you. But the way he made you feel? You’d risk it all just to feel that way again. He might come back. And if he does (“they always do”)—you’ll let him.

But if someone truly wanted to be with you, they wouldn’t keep you in limbo.

3— The Nice Guy

He’s perfect. He texts back, makes plans. He’s sweet. He likes you. 

You should like him. You want to like him.

Yet you feel nothing. No thrill, no stomach drop, no rush of panic every time your phone dings. It’s easy to blame yourself, to assume the toxic relationships have made stability feel foreign. 

Sometimes, attraction isn’t just about security—it’s about compatibility, emotional depth, and personal dynamics. He feels wrong not because he’s treating you well, but because there’s a fundamental disconnect in the way you relate to each other.

However–more often–The Nice Guy presents a different kind of challenge: one that forces you to confront your own patterns. How you’ve become conditioned to associate the high with love. 

Love freely given doesn’t spike adrenaline. It’s not a gamble. It’s safe, predictable. And if you’ve grown accustomed to equating unpredictability with passion, that steadiness feels dull.

Emotionally unavailable men make their affection feel like a rare currency—something you have to earn. The more elusive it is, the more valuable it feels. 

Deep down, part of you believes love should be something won, something worked for. If it’s just given—where’s the proof that it’s real? It makes you wonder: Does he love me because I’m special? Or because he would love anyone? 

With the others, winning their affection makes you feel like the exception. So you end it. Kindly, gently, guiltily. And then? You run right back to the men who never cared about you in the first place.

Love Me, Leave Me, Haunt Me

If anything, the awareness makes it worse—like watching yourself run back into a burning building while narrating, in real-time, exactly how you’re getting burned. 

Looking back now at my first, I don’t know if I’d even call it love, not in the way I understand it now. But it felt big. It felt all-consuming. It felt like everything. It also taught me love is something that can disappear without explanation. 

Once the damage felt bearable, the first person I found myself capable of feeling anything for, who had me excited– left suddenly, too. And then there I was again, questioning myself with gruesome introspect. 

The game of it consumed me after. Light-hearted and detached, I could feel the thrill of a challenge without guessing if it was real. Instead, I could know it never would be. There’s comfort in that.

I don’t see relationships for what they were—I see them for what they could have become if the timing, circumstances, or emotions had been different. The idea of “unfinished business” keeps me attached, even when reality says it’s over. Even when they say it’s over. 

If I felt deeply desired, seen, or emotionally intoxicated, it’s hard to let go of that high. My brain craves that intensity again, so I hold onto the person who gave it to me. My strongest relationships in the past involved pain, longing, and obstacles. Because of this, my brain has linked deep love with emotional struggle. If something ends easily, it doesn’t feel as significant. But if it ends in pain, it feels like it must have been important.

This makes it hard for me to accept that sometimes people aren’t meant to stay, and that’s okay. 

Even when I say I’m done, I don’t fully shut the door. Part of me hopes that if I wait long enough, they’ll realize what they lost. This hope keeps me from fully letting go because I’m still living in a “maybe one day” mindset.

In this waiting, in this thrill– I watch the wheel spin, greedily hoping for the impossible win.