Attachments Are Scary Quotes

Frequently, when I suggest to people that they detach from a person or problem, they recoil in horror. “Oh, no!” they say. “I could never do that. I love him, or her, too much. I care too much to do that. This problem or person is too important to me. I have to stay attached!” My answer to that is, “WHO SAYS YOU HAVE TO?” I’ve got news—good news. We don’t “have to.” There’s a better way. It’s called “detachment.”3 It may be scary at first, but it will ultimately work better for everyone involved.

It’s not called ‘falling in love’ for no reason. It’s scary! It’s like jumping out of a plane with no parachute. Or bungee-jumping without your cord attached. Or hang-gliding with only one wing.

Receiving feels wonderful once you get used to it. But first you must acknowledge how scary it is to be open. If, as a child you were left to fend for yourself or there were strings attached to getting what you needed, you learned that nurturing was either unavailable or unsafe. But now, receiving doesn’t have to mean owing something back. Start asking for at least one thing you want every day.

First, friends who are attached have a desire to see a lot of each other and know what’s going on in each other’s lives. Second, the friends provide a secure base for each other—meaning the friendship allows them to go out and explore other friendships, romantic relationships, new jobs, anything that might feel scary but ultimately positive, because they can look over their shoulder and know their friend is there for them. And third, they offer each other a safe harbor. When things go wrong for one friend, the other loyally and dependably steps up to offer support.

I’m not procrastinating!” Ross called back, finishing attaching a very scary looking headdress onto a normally shy elf. “I’m doing side quests!

It’s invigorating. And scary. Because when you’re in charge of your destiny, everything is yours to gain or lose.

This is how you build secure attachment: through daily attunement to the subtle cues of other people and lavishing love and care, while letting them come and go as needed. In this kind of connection, you know your home base is always there for you, so you feel comfortable going out into the world, taking risks, trying new or scary things, because you can return to safe arms when you need to.

Some children grow up with parents whi have their own strong attachment issues: they experience their parents as sometimes emotionally available, sometimes scared, and sometimes even scary. This variation is confusing and frightening, and these children are unable to find a way to consistently meet their attachment needs. They don’t find solace in either deactivating (trying to go it alone) or hyperactivating (reaching out for attention and acceptance), so they attempt to use both kinds of strategies in a disorganized way. This creates a chaotic and confusing pattern in relationships known as the fearful style of attachment.

There is a weird truth to the idea that if you really don’t care, things will generally go your way. If you’re really invested and emotionally attached, things will get away from you or at least get chaotic and scary.

Cocks had always been an incidental bonus to me, something I only cared about in proportion to how much I liked the guy it was attached to. Silly when flaccid, exciting or scary or off-putting when hard. It was a man’s words or expression or caresses that dominated my masturbatory fantasies—a specific man at that, be he a crush or a celebrity or a character from a movie. I never simply fixated on a dick. They were strictly secondary to the man himself.

A Judge personality strongly believes in right and wrong, which is great, but they also believe they are the ones who decide right and wrong and lord it over others to maintain authority and power. Right and wrong are less a moral code than they are a collar and leash they attach to others so they can lead them around. When a Judge personality is religious, they’ll use the Bible to gain control of others. The Bible becomes a book of rules they use to prove they are right rather than a book that introduces people to God.

This guy had a shaved head and wore goggles on his forehead above his eyes. But his most distinguishing feature was the gigantic necklace he wore around his neck. It was made of glowing red balls—which Computerface realized were the same type of “eyeballs” as those attached to the Retriever robot's antennae—giving his face a look like he was perpetually telling scary stories around a camp fire.

Suddenly, a rock hits the other side of the hex. It stays there. It's just a few inches away from me. It's roughly triangular, kind of a dark brown, and has rough, jagged edges. Like you might see on the tip of a spear from a caveman. Have I met spacefaring cavemen? Stop being stupid, Ryland. Why did they put a rock there? And is it sticky? Are they trying to block my view? If so, they're doing a terrible job. The little triangle is only a couple of inches wide at the thickest point and the hex is a good 8 inches across. And it gets sillier. Now the rock is bending at articulated joints, and there are two similar rocks that do the same thing, and there's a larger rock attached to them that- That's not a rock. It's a claw! It's a claw with three fingers! ... The alien's claw-er... I'll call it a hand. That's less scary. The alien's hand has three triangular fingers, each one with articulation points. Knuckles, I guess. They can close up in to a raindrop shape of widen out to a sort of three-legged starfish. The skin is weird. It looks like brownish-black rock. It's irregular and bumpy, like someone carved the hand out of granite and hasn't gotten around to smoothing it out yet. Natural armour, maybe? Like a turtle shell, but less organised? There's an arm, too. I can barely see it from this angle, no matter how hard I stupidly press my face in to the Hot Wall of Pain. But there's definitely an arm leading away from the hand. I mean, there'd have to be, right? Not just a magic floating hand.

he mounted the hunter’s wife's head on it and attached it to the wall in the den.

You know, Alan, I think the crazy bastard used the vacuum to suck up the blood that pooled, drained it into a bucket, and attached it to a blower.” “What a sick fuck,” Edgars bellowed.

Her father selected a slice of cheek from the bloody stew of body parts in the bag and went inside the house to take a pee and find some salsa for dipping.“ Popping a chocolate eyeball between her black teeth, her mother knew something was very wrong with her daughter. Norma had barely touched the juicy tongue with some of the roots still attached that most witches would crawl into bed with the devil for,

The beam of light fixed on the bloody head of an old woman suspended from a hairy fist attached to a harrier, giant arm.

How do these online distraction systems work? They start with an external trigger or notification. You may visit a Website or sign up for a service. They will then send you an email, follow you on the Internet with ads, or send you a push notification with very specific language that has been tested to get you to click on it. You click on the link and your attachment or connection to that distraction system gets a little bit stronger. You, unintentionally, provide that system with more information when you read an article, add a friend, or comment on a photo. Without realizing it, and behind the scenes, the machinery of distraction is starting to turn. On a scale of 1-10, with 10 being completely attached, you are a 2 at this point. These companies know that you don’t really care about the company itself, but you do care about your friends, family, and co-workers. They leverage these relationships by showing your profile to these contacts. These people are then asked to add you as a contact, friend, or to comment on your photo. Guess what this does? It brings you back to the site and increases the attachment. Think about this just for a second. If a company wants me to come back to their site, then they have a much higher chance of getting me back if they tell me my nephew added me as a friend, or posted a new pic. I care about my nephew. I don’t care about the company. This happens a few times and the attachment goes from a 2 to a 5. Soon, you have more and more connections on the site. Many of these sites have a magic number. Once you cross that threshold they know they really have you. Let’s say it is 10 connections. Once you have 10 connections they know with a level of statistical certainty that they can get you coming back to the site several times a week. Your attachment then goes from a 5 to a 7. All this time they are still pinging you via email, ads or push notifications to get you back to the site. The prompts or triggers to get you back are all external. You may be experiencing uncomfortable emotions like anxiety, sadness, or boredom, but you are not yet feeling these as triggers to go to the site and escape these feelings. Instead, what happens gradually, is that the trigger moves from being external like an email prompt and moves internal. Soon, they do not have to remind you or leverage your relationships to go back to the site. You are now doing it on your own. You are checking it regularly on your own. Your attachment has moved from a 7 to an 8. They’ve got you now, but they don’t completely have you. The tendrils are not yet deep into your brain and that is really where they want to go. They want to get as wrapped around your brain as possible, because the deeper they are - the more unconscious this behavior of checking the site - the more time you spend on the site and the more money they make. When you start living your life, not for what you are actually experiencing at the moment, but instead for how you imagine it will look to other people on these sites, then they really have you. When the experience itself is less meaningful than the image of you on the site and the number of likes it gets, then they are getting really deep. They have moved the center of your self from your actual life and transferred it to the perception of your life on their site. You now mostly live for reactions from other people on these company’s sites. By this time, you are likely refreshing the page, habitually looking at your phone, and wondering why your pic or video has not received more comments or likes. By this time you are fully hooked, as my good friend Nir Eyal would say, and your attachment has gone from an 8 to a full 10. They’ve got you hook, line, and sinker. Scary

I am SAM, and this is my first mission. Wish me luck. Actually, don’t bother. I’m that good. I need to move fast, but I have to be careful too.This high-tech fortress disguised as a middle school has security systems like Hershey, Pennsylvania, has chocolate. My biggest concern (and archnemesis) is Jan I. Tor. He’s the half-human, half-cyborg “cleaning service” they use for “light security” around here. Yeah, right. Tor’s definition of “light security” is that he only kills you once if he finds you. So I wait in super-stealthy silence while Tor hovers past my hiding spot with his motion detectors running, laser cannons loaded, and a big dust mop attachment on his robotic arm. He’s cleaning that floor to within an inch of its life, but it could be me next. As soon as Tor’s out of range, I slip off my tungsten gripper shoes. Believe me, once he’s been through here, you do not want to leave footprints behind. That would be like leaving a business card in Sergeant Stricker’s in-box. Stricker is the big cheese who runs this place, and she’s all human, but just as scary as Tor. I don’t want to rumble with either one of those two. So I program the shoes to self-destruct and drop them in the trash. FWOOM! The coast is clear now, and I sneak back into action. I work my way up the corridor in my spy socks, quiet as a ghost walking on cotton balls. Very, very puffy cotton balls—I’m that quiet. What I need is the perfect place to leave the package I came here to deliver. That’s the mission, but I can’t just do it anywhere. I have to choose wisely. Bathroom? Nah. Too echoey. Library? Nah. Only one exit, and I can’t take that risk. Main lobby? Hmm… maybe so. In fact, I wish I’d thought of that on my way in. I could have saved myself one very expensive pair of tungsten gripper shoes. Once my radar-enabled Rolex watch tells me the main lobby is clear, I slide in there and get right to work. I enter the access code on my briefcase, confirm with my thumbprint, and then pop the case open. After that, it takes exactly seven seconds and one ordinary roll of masking tape to secure my package to the wall. That’s it. Package delivered. Mission accomplished. Catch you next time—because there’s no way you’ll ever catch me. SAM out!

The few times Harper had come down the mountain, Mercy always managed to find him to tag along with whatever he was doing. She’d developed a strange attachment to the scary soldier. One morning she’d opened the front door to walk outside and had to slam to a stop in surprise. Harper was sitting on the porch stairs and her daughter stood behind him, with her arms wrapped as far around his massive shoulders as she could reach. She looked ridiculously tiny compared to the former soldier with the shaved head, but the man didn’t move for several long seconds. Finally, he patted her little hands and sent her running to the playground. Lora thought she’d escaped his notice, but when he stood up he caught her eye in the doorway. “She’s worth her weight in gold,” he rumbled. “I will do everything in my power to keep her safe.” Lora nodded and watched as he disappeared into the woods, huge gun held in his arms like a baby. When she’d asked Mercy about the incident later, her daughter had shrugged. “He seemed sad so I gave him a hug.” Those words had humbled her. But

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I am not Seamus, who tacks emotions to the outside of his skin and whose words charge from his mouth on horseback. No one sees through me, except Xavier, and he does so not because I choose to give him access but because he knows himself. I will have to offer myself to Seamus, if I want something 'more' with him. Part of me can't believe I'd contemplate it, even for a moment. What do I have in common with an oversized, yarn-spinning, bread-mauling, divorced deliveryman attached to a seven-year-old? The rest of me doesn't know if I remember how to be close to another person. I practice mimicry, a Viceroy butterfly masquerading as a Monarch, a Superb Lyrebird echoing the calls of everything from chickadees to chain saws. I practice stories of my past, telling this sad memory or that scary one, and people feel I'm confiding in them because the words touch their deepest wounds, not because the tales hold any emotional resonance for me. My intimacies, the ones that have become my Sisyphus stones, long-term romantic relationships, the college one, ended with the nice young man shocked when I said I didn't love him and we had nothing in common. "We've spent two years talking about everything," he said. Yes, mimicry.

He's a whole new species. He's audacious. He's resourceful. He's ingenious. He's cool. He's bad. He's scary. He's got a two-foot cock. Aye, very good. He's a wanker, that's what he is. All terrorists are wankers. Whatever flags they wrapped themselves in, whatever religions, histories or myths they attached to their crusades, they were to a man, just wankers. They told themselves and anyone bored enough to listen that they were in it for the glory of their cause or the welfare of their 'people' (few of whom were ever consulted about this), but the truth was they were in it because they liked killing people. Every last fucking one of them.

The full-time job—to which we've attached all of the rules about treating workers fairly—is dissolving, and the community of workers who are treated as second-class citizens, who aren't protected by the same laws or entitled to the same benefits as other workers, is growing. That is a big, scary problem, and one worth studying.

Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth’s research shows that children develop attachment styles that are more secure or more insecure, depending on how well their parents are able to be a connected and responsive safe haven for them. If their caretakers are able to meet most of their needs enough of the time, children usually have a secure attachment. But if they experience their parents as inconsistent, inaccessible, unresponsive or even threatening and dangerous, they adapt by developing more insecure attachment styles. If our attachment figures were absent or scary to us as children, we didn’t develop our ability to freely explore and to learn about the world and about our own abilities. When this happens, we develop insecure strategies for engaging with others—we may become more vigilant and anxious or more avoidant and dismissive.

How can I stop it?” “When the thought comes,” says Dr. Finch, “don’t push it away. That will make it worse. Just think ‘Oh look. It’s that thought again. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not me.’ Don’t attach significance to it. If it loses its power to be scary, it won’t hurt you anymore.

Don’t attach significance to it. If it loses its power to be scary, it won’t hurt you anymore.

Living is a scary proposition. Being a person in the world and having attachments and trying to do anything is a scary proposition. It's like stepping into a desert.

Every available surface of the secret room was lined with weapons. Guns of every shape, size, and caliber. Knives in all kinds of shapes and curves. Even... "Is that a rocket launcher?" I squeaked, pointing to a scary-looking weapon with a long-ass tube attached.

The second teaches my son that his feelings are too powerful and scary to be managed, that they harm others and threaten attachment security with a caregiver. (We’ll get into more detail about attachment in chapter 4, but the short of it is this: focusing on a child’s impact on us sets the stage for codependence, not regulation or empathy.)

Love becomes scary when you get too attached to the one you love.

I think I finally understand what it is that you experienced in our last moments together. The fear to resign yourself to a final belief greater than yourself. It is difficult to decide what cause to believe in because of the fear that it is a lesser unworthy cause, it is not the meaning but rather a symptom of looking for meaning. And in all of our attachments we long for them to have meaning no matter how long they last. It is a scary thing to create such a drastic action that changes your life. It requires more than faith, there will be a second where only the action and what Kierkegaard called the infinite movement would have to occur. The final dance.

This attachment has endured through the years and withstood a steady helmet-slapping of cognitive dissonance over whether I should know better than to keep following this sport as closely as I do. Scary research on posthumous football brains has been as impossible to miss as the testimonials from still-living retirees about the sad state of their bodies. (To wit: “My life sucks,” Jim Plunkett, then sixty-nine, told the San Jose Mercury News in 2017. “Everything hurts.”) If you love football, you get good

Yet the structure we have built to protect and nurture these children actually does the opposite. Imagine an impoverished six-year-old boy who rarely gets a healthy meal and rarely has parental supervision. He finally goes to school and falls in love with the first person who has ever been there every day for him—his first-grade teacher. She loves and encourages and teaches him. She won’t let the kids bully one another, and she makes sure he gets a good breakfast, lunch, and an after-school snack. Only the weekends are scary. The sixyear-old has a daily routine that includes a committed relationship for the very first time. Life is good; hope is learned. Then the school year ends, and this wonderful teacher says, “Good-bye. You will have a great teacher in second grade.” So the seven-year-old survives the short summer and begins the process all over. But now he has a homeroom teacher, a math and science teacher, a language arts teacher, and a music teacher. Which one is he to fall in love with? Who will fall in love with him? Each of these teachers has dozens of students to care for an hour at a time. And so, at the end of second grade it’s a little less painful to part with his teachers because he never really got to know them. But at least he was physically safe and was fed every day. And so, by the end of third grade, he hardly notices his teacher because he has formed a strong attachment to the friends who move along from class to class with him. They share multiple hours together daily. Instead of taking his signals of proper behavior from a committed adult, since he has none at home or school, he models his life after the future football captain, just as the girls in his class likely emulate the future prom queen. This child from an impoverished culture was taught, in effect, that no adult cares enough to hang out and teach him for more than the 150 hours required to complete a credit. And as he got older, he also learned that the teachers were not quite as able to physically protect him as when he and his classmates were small, and it’s humiliating to have to eat the government-provided free lunch. Even our elementary

If I get attached to you and this is all just a revenge ploy, I’ll haunt you until you take your last breath. And even then, I would follow you around hell throwing fireballs at you.” “First, if I’m going to hell, you have to come with me. I’d miss you too much down there by myself. Plus, we can throw fireballs at each other. It’ll be adorable. Like a snowball fight but with spice.” I touched my lips to hers, rubbing back and forth. “Second, aren’t you already attached to me?” Her nose scrunched again. “Why should I be the one to admit my feelings?” “I think I’ve done a lot of that. But here you go, Bex. I am attached to you. I have been for longer than I even realized. If I hate you, it’ll be because you try to leave me.” She did that humming thing again. “You’re extremely intense. It’s kind of scary.” “You’re the only person in my life I can be completely real with. Sometimes that realness might be scary. I’m hoping you can handle it because I want it to be you.

You listen to me, Holmes, and you listen good. I did not exit a child out of my body to just sit here and raise it without a best friend by my side. Do you understand what a postpartum woman goes through?” “Ehhh . . .” “Underneath this pretty pink blouse I’m wearing are raw nipples. Yeah . . . raw. They are chapped and have been sucked on and tugged on and brutalized to the point that I’m not sure I even have feeling in them anymore. And my stomach.” She clasps her hand to her stomach. “It is jiggly but not, but also . . . jiggly. Explain to me how that works? It’s as if when I got pregnant, an extra layer of skin was added but never fully attached to the underneath layer so it just moves around freely. And my feet . . . they fit in nothing,” she whispers in a scary tone, and I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Nothing. All I can say is thank God for my generation creating the casual but professional look by incorporating sneakers with trousers because I wouldn’t have anything to wear on my feet if it weren’t for the fashion trends right now. And don’t get me started on the underwear I have to wear now.” She grips my jersey, coming in closer. “They are . . . enormous. I could wrap your head and Posey’s head together in one pair. So you can understand I need my best friend. Therefore, find your balls, man, because you are going to make my friend fall for you so fucking hard that she won’t know what to do with herself. Got it?

Every part of me was wholeheartedly in with this girl. It felt like she had been in my life forever. Like I’d never known anything other than Shannon. She was my first love, and she was scary as fuck to me. Being with her was an obsession that threatened to consume me daily. I had to work my ass off to keep my head in check, but remembering to keep my feet on the ground and my head out of the clouds was easier said than done when I had a girl that knocked me on my ass with one glance. She wrapped me up in childish, illogical, irrational knots, with a new one attaching itself to my heart with every day that passed. I was completely losing control, and that was a problem for me. My feelings for her were a serious issue because they were too strong to rein in, too much to take, and too reeking of permanence. In other words, I was royally fucking screwed.